Gumnut's Stargate SG1 Ficlet Collection
by Gumnut
Summary: A collection of ficlets not long enough to warrant their own story space. Some may contain spoilers for any season. Includes answers to challenges.
1. Temptation

Temptation A drabble for 'fandangle' By Gumnut 7 Feb 2004  
  
It sat on his desk, its presence distracting. It had been left by some careless airman who had no idea of the problem his simple neglect could cause.  
  
It was watching him.  
  
He tried to ignore it.  
  
God, he tried.  
  
He buried himself in paperwork attempting to shut out its existence, but with little success.  
  
He could, of course, simply pick it up and throw it in the trash, or stash it away out of sight.  
  
But, no, that would require him to touch it. And once he touched its smooth, soft surface he would be lost.  
  
So it was still there.  
  
Calling him.  
  
Irresistible.  
  
Damnit!  
  
He placed his pen gently on the desk. He really couldn't afford this distraction, he did not have the time.  
  
Or any excuse.  
  
He looked vainly at the door, willing it to open, for someone to come and take the fandangle away.  
  
It remained closed and silent.  
  
And his bane remained.  
  
His head fell into his hands.  
  
For crying out loud, if Daniel found out, he'd never hear the end of it. That should be enough to stave off his urges.  
  
But it wasn't.  
  
His will was crushed under its presence.  
  
Perhaps one. Just one.  
  
He reached out a hand, touched the soft plastic.  
  
And was ensnared.  
  
His office was filled with the sounds of bursting plastic.  
  
The bubblewrap had him.  
  
********** FIN. 


	2. Boxers

Boxers Never a drabble By Gumnut 6 Mar 2004  
  
They were mostly papers.  
  
Forms, reports, the odd unfiled file. And they came in a rainbow of colours. Pink, green, yellow, white. Most of them had her neat handwriting on them. Incredibly neat considering her occupation.  
  
He shuffled aimlessly as the print began to blur.  
  
Occasionally they would come across an item that wasn't official USAF anything. Again some of these were paper. Scribbled reminder notes, old christmas cards, even one with his own scrawl denting the surface of a verse encrusted picture of a dog wearing a santa hat, four years old. He could remember handing it to her while hoarding his stash of popcorn from an over excited Cassie. A movie, friends and Christmas – cards, presents, laughter. He didn't even know she had kept it. But apparently she had.  
  
Oddly enough he had never expected it to fall into his hands again.  
  
Paperweights.  
  
She had a fanaticism with paperweights.  
  
Not particularly illogical considering how much paper was actually in this room, but a little out of the ordinary nonetheless. Marvin the Martian stared out at him from a round glob of clear plastic, his form frozen in a snarl of defiance at any form of breeze that may flutter the clutter he was ordered to restrain. Three odd shaped rocks sat in a row on the bookshelf, polished quartz possibly, each sporting a set of plastic bobble eyes that also stared back at him. Accusing perhaps not, yet stabbing him anyway.  
  
He grabbed them and placed them gently in the carton next to Marvin. They could stare at each other. He did not need reminding, because he would never forget.  
  
A snuffling sound came from the opposite corner of the room, and he glanced up covertly in time to see Carter rub her hand across her face. He couldn't see her eyes, she was turned towards the wall, but he knew she was crying. The soft, stark sobs were all that was breaking the silence.  
  
His mind danced between his options of whether to go and talk with her, lend her a hand, an arm, or a shoulder, or whether he should hide behind rank as he usually did. Carter could handle it. She always did. Just like he did. She was a soldier, he was a soldier.  
  
God, he was full of shit.  
  
He took a step in her direction, but his mandatory hesitation took the option away from him as Daniel, ever the more empathic, wandered over and put an arm around her, letting her head fall to his shoulder as he held her. Daniel stared over her at Jack, his blue eyes less than dry themselves.  
  
A brief flash of envy of both of them danced across O'Neill's mind. Daniel for his ability to give sympathy, Carter for her ability to take it. For he had difficulty with both.  
  
He forced himself back to his task.  
  
Books.  
  
There were lots of books.  
  
And they were not small books. If there was one thing that all scientists had in common, it was their love of honkin' great big books. His wrist strained as he manhandled one which was particularly in line for the title of world's most humungous tome.  
  
The box strained as he let the hardback fall to the bottom, the thump as it landed making him jump.  
  
He paused for a moment, staring at the carton. The usual USAF stickers were stuck on its sides, her name was printed in neat letters on the pretty little stick on form. The simple words of name and rank hid the purpose of its existence, hid the reason as to why this mundane, prefabricated, blank and stark cardboard was enclosing these items.  
  
It didn't tell you that the previous owner of everything it contained was dead.  
  
A victim of circumstance?  
  
Career choice?  
  
Fate?  
  
The letters blurred again, and he shook his head.  
  
He had asked for this task. Sam and Daniel had supported him wholeheartedly, and in the end he couldn't have given a rat's ass if he was using his rank to his own advantage. Just the thought of leaving all her personal items to be sorted through by someone other than a friend just did not bear consideration.  
  
So he had volunteered. Knowing the pain he would be putting himself through.  
  
Because she was here. In every corner of this room. Here, even though she was gone, never to return.  
  
The object in his hand blurred, and once again he had to squint, only to open his eyes and realise he was holding a photograph and she was smiling at him.  
  
God.  
  
His hand trembled.  
  
They were all in the picture. Sam, Teal'c, Daniel, Cassie, himself.....and Janet. He'd always loved her smile.  
  
She had never hesitated to show it to him each time he awoke in her infirmary, plastered, sewn, glued, and stitched back together by her very own hand. She had always been happy to see him.  
  
And he always woke to that smile.  
  
Except this time.  
  
Broken ribs.  
  
Concussion.  
  
Where is Doctor Fraiser?  
  
The nurse hadn't told him.  
  
But tears do tell.  
  
It had been Hammond who had confirmed it. His face pale. They had been two blank faced soldiers passing information succinctly and emotionlessly. Both eager for privacy to lick their own wounds and handle it in their own way away from prying eyes.  
  
He had been the model patient this time. Janet would have been proud.  
  
The photo flicked from his hand and landed, corners crumpled, on top of the pile in the box.  
  
It was painful.  
  
Not unfamiliar, but painful nonetheless. And it was a job that had to be done. They were here to fill a pile of empty cartons with the remnants of a life.  
  
And they were her friends.  
  
Today they paid her a respect beyond her memorial service.  
  
Because today they were Janet Fraiser's boxers.  
  
********** FIN. 


	3. Ready to blow

Ready to Blow A drabblish for the word 'thimblerig' By Gumnut 26 Jan 2004  
  
What? It was on him?  
  
Immediately fingers grabbed at his jacket. His pack was torn from his shoulders, his weapon taken from his hands.  
  
Goddamnit! Sneaky snakehead bastards.  
  
He had a brief glimpse of Daniel grabbing for his T-Shirt before his head was buried in cloth as the garment was yanked over his head. The cool air of the gateroom hit his back and chest causing him to shiver. Goose pimples raised on his skin.  
  
Found it yet?  
  
No.  
  
Damnit.  
  
Socks, shoes. A sharp look at Carter before he shed his pants as well.  
  
Goddamnit! Where is it?  
  
Sir, we still don't have it.  
  
Shit, shit, shit!  
  
He reached for the waistband of his boxers.  
  
I got it, I got it! Daniel held it up. A tiny little sphere looking not unlike a shock grenade yet no bigger than a thimble.  
  
Rigged to blow.  
  
Get it out of here now!  
  
The clatter of boots on the ramp followed by the gentle ploop of the tiny bomb being sucked into the event horizon.  
  
The crack of the wormhole disengaging.  
  
The sudden silence of relief.  
  
SG-1 report to the infirmary.  
  
Damn it is cold in here. He shivered wrapping his bare arms around himself.  
  
What?  
  
Well, they are not exactly regulation, sir.  
  
Shut up, Carter.  
  
********** FIN. 


	4. Taken

Taken  
  
A drabble  
  
By Gumnut   
  
25 Oct 2003  
  
They took it.  
  
They took it from him in pieces, in chunks, leaving gaping holes that filled with doubt.  
  
Doubt about his mission, doubt about his friends.  
  
Doubt about himself.  
  
They took his faith.  
  
Leaving him dry and bitter. A parched echo of himself.  
  
But though his faith was lost, the team still came, still saved him, still believed.  
  
Had enough faith of their own, faith in him, to find him.  
  
And as they took him from his cage, he looked up into their eyes.  
  
And they gave it back.  
  
**********  
  
FIN. 


	5. Steam

Steam By Gumnut 23 Mar 2004  
  
The steam wafted up his nostrils, lazily taunting his sinuses.  
  
The warmth was wonderful. He lay back and let the warm water rise up his chest, a shallow incoming tide until it reached his chin and lapped at his throat. Aaaaaaaaah, a long drawn out sigh. The heat soaked into his muscles, kneading them, drawing the ache from his bones.  
  
He was home and he had the night to himself.  
  
Bubbles trembled as he breathed, the odd loose foam encircled snatch of air sent dancing the length of the tub to where his toes stuck out like pinnacle islands in a sea of white froth.  
  
He wiggled them noting that the second toe on his right foot was still longer than the second toe on his left foot. An oddity peculiar to only himself. And a reminder of an event now long in the past.  
  
He had many such reminders. His body was a scarred roadmap of his past. A glance in the mirror was enough to spark a thousand memories, most of them bad.  
  
But that was life.  
  
And a life that he had mostly chosen for himself.  
  
Even though choice had been the first casualty on each of those landmark occasions.  
  
But he did not want to ponder his misfortunes. He wanted to relax. Tomorrow was his birthday and one of his rare days off, and he intended to enjoy it all, starting from now.  
  
The toes disappeared under the surface.  
  
He lowered himself further into the water, revelling the feel as the heat climbed slowly over his chin, his mouth, his nose, his eyelids, to finally lap gently closed over his head, all connection with the outside world severed.  
  
Quiet.  
  
Warmth.  
  
The sensation of floating, his body buoyant, supported by a liquid caressing his skin.  
  
It was wonderful.  
  
He could have lain there for hours.  
  
If he didn't need to breathe that is.  
  
That and the fact the doorbell rang.  
  
Damn.  
  
No, he wasn't going to answer it. He was going to stay right here. Here with the wonderfully warm water and the bubbles.  
  
The bubbles.  
  
Now all over his face.  
  
Up his nose.  
  
Hanging off his eyelashes.  
  
And making the crackly sounds that only bubble bath foam can make when it's stuffed in your ears.  
  
Damn his reflexes.  
  
And damn whoever rang the damn doorbell anyway.  
  
It rang again.  
  
Ignoring it.  
  
Again.  
  
More soap in the ears, perhaps that will help.  
  
Again.  
  
Damnit, go the hell away.  
  
Silence.  
  
Aaaah, he relaxed back in the tub again.  
  
His cell phone rang.  
  
The wonders of technology. A mobile phone that is currently in his uniform pocket two rooms and a hallway away.  
  
He should answer it.  
  
Steam continued to rise from the surface of the water.  
  
It could be a call to save the world yet again.  
  
It kept ringing.  
  
Damnit!  
  
Why was it always a bath versus the annihilation of Earth?  
  
He sat up, and the phone stopped.  
  
Groan.  
  
Oh well, if it was Earth shattering they'd ring back.  
  
His home phone rang.  
  
Oh, for the love of God!  
  
Water and bubble bath sloshed in the tub, splashing onto the cold tiled floor. His warm, wet feet met with that same cold tiled floor and his toes curled up in reaction. He stumbled onto the bath mat, nearly slipping and beheading himself on the medicine cabinet. Ow, damn! Stubbed toe on the vanity.  
  
He paused briefly, considering the varieties of painful death he would inflict on the caller at the other end of the line.  
  
He grabbed the door handle with a bubble-coated fist and tore out of the bathroom and down the hall to the living room. He grabbed the telephone receiver, almost ripping the unit off the wall.  
  
"What?!"  
  
There was no answer.  
  
"Who the hell is this?!"  
  
A giggle.  
  
A giggle?  
  
He didn't have time for this. He slammed the phone down. This time it did fall off the wall. The sound of cracking plastic almost obscured the sound of a gentle knock.  
  
He turned.  
  
His front window, one large birthday cake, one astrophysicist, one archaeologist, one Jaffa warrior, three pairs of eyes and two raised eyebrows. The other four eyebrows were hidden somewhere in two hairlines.  
  
Uh oh.  
  
He suddenly became very conscious of the slow drip of suds and water down his back. Soapy dripped into his eyes, stinging them slightly and he blinked to clear them. It was suddenly very cold in here.  
  
Carter, at least, had the consideration to look embarrassed, though her eyes were obviously having trouble, they had a tendency to wander a little, bouncing from him to the cake in her hands and back to him.  
  
Daniel looked simply as if he would rather be anywhere but where he currently was.  
  
Teal'c.....Teal'c was typical. His expression was harder to read but he could distinguish enough to recognise it as one of rather haughty bemusement. Damn Jaffa and their almighty infallibilities.  
  
But it was Colonel Jack O'Neill's reaction that topped the lot. The man appeared from one side of the window suddenly, phone still in hand, and pressed his face up to the glass, steaming up the cold surface with his breath. Somehow the smirk on his face lacked the respect the General felt he should engender from the man. He was after all their commanding officer.  
  
Damnit all to hell. George Hammond grabbed a cushion and what was left of his dignity and strolled off as regally as possible in the direction of his bedroom. Hmm, KD? Guard duty? No, Latrines, definitely latrines.  
  
********** FIN. 


	6. Rainwater

Rainwater No longer a drabble. By Gumnut Jan 2004  
  
Rainwater.  
  
It dripped on the roof like an irregular heartbeat, falling not from the distant sky, but from the overhanging trees, bent under the weight of the sudden downpour.  
  
He sat on the porch, beer in hand, relishing in the cool, wet air, the scent of damp earth filling his nostrils.  
  
He was home.  
  
His haven.  
  
The lake surface shimmered with the repeated echoes of the recent shower, the crisscross of ripples catching the sun as it crept beyond the passing clouds, reflecting and refracting a dazzling display of light.  
  
The sight was beautiful.  
  
He should be happy.  
  
But he wasn't.  
  
His heart beat in his chest like a lone drummer in an empty parade ground, the sound of his blood in his ears, echoes of those lonely notes thrumming in the silence.  
  
He was healthy.  
  
He was whole.  
  
He had friends.  
  
They had driven him here, worried at his quiet, tormented by his silence. Searching for that one thing that could bring him back, turn him into the Colonel they knew.  
  
But he had lost.  
  
Ba'al had taken.  
  
The irreplaceable.  
  
So he sat on his porch and watched the sun come out. Watched Mother Earth, busy with her endless cycles of life.  
  
And tried to forget the cycles of his own.  
  
********** FIN. 


	7. Pain

Pain A drabblish for Twitch By Gumnut 9 Dec 2003  
  
He felt pain.  
  
It ran up and down his entire body, curling up in the back of his head and squeezing to the point that thought was no longer possible. His mind was no longer his.  
  
It belonged to the pain.  
  
The surface on which he was sitting was soft, but his skin was sensitive, and it cringed from the contact, knotting itself into tiny goose pimples of tension.  
  
He held his head in his hands.  
  
Would it ever end? Would the pain ever be a memory?  
  
Somewhere, deep down inside, a voice spoke to him. It told him of how he had volunteered for this. How he had put the team above and beyond himself. How he had sacrificed.  
  
The pain danced in his head.  
  
At the edge of his vision, a figure moved and he flinched.  
  
The man responsible for his pain entered the room. A shadow fell upon him. A voice spoke.  
  
"For crying out loud, Daniel, it's only a hangover!"  
  
That's it! Jack was going to pay.  
  
********* FIN 


	8. Faces

Faces A drabble and a bit By Gumnut 17 Nov 2003  
  
He picked up the gun.  
  
And the faces followed him.  
  
He aimed down the barrel.  
  
And the faces stared back at him.  
  
And as he took yet another life.  
  
The faces screamed.  
  
Some faces wore armour.  
  
Some faces wore cloth.  
  
Some faces were frightened.  
  
Some faces were not.  
  
But all the faces stared.  
  
At him.  
  
At his motions.  
  
At what he did.  
  
And he felt their eyes every moment of his life.  
  
The enemy, the defenseless, the friends, the young, the old.  
  
The children.  
  
Those lives he had taken, those lives he had failed to protect.  
  
So he picked up the gun.  
  
Aiming to defend, aiming to save.  
  
In the vain hope that one day.  
  
Those faces would forgive.  
  
********** FIN. 


	9. Heels on Concrete

Heels on Concrete A drabble and a bit (For Pat) By Gumnut 9 Dec 2003  
  
Clip-clop.  
  
He can hear them coming, the sounds echoing off the concrete walls.  
  
Clip-clop.  
  
Damn! "Daniel, gimme that!"  
  
Clip-clop.  
  
The soft rustle of sheets overlaid the impending sound of doom.  
  
Clip-clop.  
  
"Sir, it's not going to work."  
  
Clip-clop.  
  
"Carter, trust me."  
  
Clip-clop.  
  
Shit, tomato paste on the covers. Is that a glob of cheese?  
  
Clip-clop.  
  
They're coming closer. "O'Neill, your attempt is not going to succeed."  
  
Clip-clop.  
  
"T, that is so not gonna stop me from trying."  
  
Clip-  
  
Four pairs of eyes turned guiltily towards the door. One pair of brown stared firmly back.  
  
A nose wrinkled, and her stare turned her patient. "Colonel O'Neill, did I, or did I not say, that there will be no pizza in my infirmary?"  
  
Oh, man, he was so gonna get it.  
  
********** FIN. 


	10. Distant Memories

Distant Memories By Gumnut 5 Apr 2004  
  
They come to him at night. Distant memories from distant stars.  
  
They taunt him, tease him, in his dreams. Complex imaginary worlds where he is complete, happy.  
  
And sane.  
  
There he had friends, companions, people who cared for him and what fate he may find.  
  
Here he had nothing.  
  
There he also had enemies. Defined foes he fought. Win, lose, he gave blood, sweat, and tears. But there had been honour, meaning, a right. Something to fight for.  
  
Here the only enemy was himself.  
  
And the shadows that hid just beyond the edge of his vision.  
  
Laughing at him.  
  
Only the memories stood up to the laughter. While he screamed and fought with himself. Scratched with his nails, bit with his teeth, pounded into the walls, the memories shouted at him, called his name. They took him in their arms and shook him till his teeth rattled, till he saw. Saw the visions before him.  
  
Saw the memories walking.  
  
Saw the eyes that shed tears, water raining on pale skin.  
  
Listened, heard their voices above the pounding in his blood and the laughter in his mind.  
  
And for a moment.  
  
Just for a moment.  
  
He was swallowed by the memory.  
  
A flicker of a feeling, of recognition. Realisation.  
  
Before once again the laughter swelled in his ears and swept him back into the horror that was his existence.  
  
Memories.  
  
That's all they were.  
  
From before a time.  
  
A time of unknown distance.  
  
Where Jack O'Neill offered up his life that one time too many.  
  
And fate cashed it in.  
  
********** FIN. 


	11. No Alternative

No Alternative By Gumnut 28 Feb 2004  
  
A gun.  
  
That's what he needed. A gun.  
  
A nice big one. Twin barrels...no, multiple barrels. A gattling gun. Yes, that would do it.  
  
The image skittered across his mind. The glint of light on the barrels as they spun, the hiss of the motor, the sharp smell of burning gun powder, the smoke climbing his nostrils. The explosive clatter battering his ears as each bullet fired, impaling the enemy, the tinkle of empty shells bouncing off the pavement.  
  
Yes, that would do nicely.  
  
He stared at his opponent.  
  
He would be quite happy to blow this piece of crap to the other side of the universe.  
  
But he had no weapon but himself, and, restrained by circumstance, all he could do was glare.  
  
The piece of crap simply stared back at him. Emotional displays ignored. O'Neill's ire beneath its notice.  
  
Anger crawled up his spine.  
  
At any other time, he might not have cared, simply grabbed the nearest solid object and beaten the scum to death.  
  
But this time there were hostages.  
  
Important hostages.  
  
And even if he did have some means of conquering the enemy, there were doubts as to whether they would survive. Chances are they were lost.  
  
And it tore him inside.  
  
He muttered under his breath. Several obscene words in several different languages, not caring if it understood or not.  
  
Jack O'Neill would never go down without a fight.  
  
But there was no fight, despite the conflict reflected in his eyes.  
  
There was no alternative.  
  
But surrender.  
  
He lifted his hands, sighing in defeat, and hit CTRL-ALT-DEL.  
  
Damn computer.  
  
********** FIN. 


	12. Missing

Missing A Drabble By Gumnut 25 Oct 2003  
  
He lost something that day.  
  
That first day, that first time he looked into the face of eternity.  
  
It was only a man, only a simple human just like himself, who held the gun. A gun not unlike his own that held the bullet. A bullet aiming to end his life.  
  
He stared into the depth of the barrel, and saw his own mortality for the first time.  
  
Fortunately it was not the last time, and the last time was yet to come.  
  
But on that day, that first day, he lost it.  
  
His innocence.  
  
And a soldier was born.  
  
********** FIN. 


	13. Fishing

Fishing A drabble and a half By Gumnut 31 Oct 2003  
  
The line tweaked between his fingertips.  
  
A hint of movement, of tension, of possible capture.  
  
The still surface of the lake was disturbed, a single ripple echoing outwards from where the line met water.  
  
The breeze was silenced, for a moment, a breath held, waiting.  
  
The birds ceased their chatter, the trees sighing in the silence before those, too, were quiet, no wind to bend their boughs.  
  
Anticipation.  
  
The line tweaked again.  
  
It shuddered, a submerged being taunting it, attempting to steal its prize and thwart it's trap.  
  
The rod bent.  
  
Pulled.  
  
But softly snapped back.  
  
And the line was still once more.  
  
The breath was released, the birds sang once again, the trees moaning softly in the wind.  
  
And, oblivious to it all, Jack O'Neill slept on.  
  
********** FIN. 


	14. Footsteps

Footsteps By Gumnut 12 Feb 2004  
  
It was late at night and most people were asleep.  
  
It was so very quiet and the silence smothered him. The hum of the air conditioning was unusually loud, its steady thrum echoing the pain in his chest, a throb not solely caused by his injury.  
  
Sleep eluded him and exhaustion drained him. Catch-22 in its rawest form.  
  
He shifted in the bed, the white infirmary sheets rustling with his unrest. They were thick sheets, good quality, stamped with the logo of the USAF. His fingers traced its outline.  
  
Damnit, he had to get out of here.  
  
It was hard to move, but he needed to do something, escape. The concrete floor was cold on the soles of his bare feet and he shuffled awkwardly, stomach muscles protesting at every step, but he slowly made his way to the door, and between the movement of the infirmary staff, he made a silent escape.  
  
The hallways were empty, a fact he was thankful for. He had no wish to see anyone, or for anyone to see him. But now he was out here, he had no idea where he wanted to go.  
  
A distant sound answered his thoughts.  
  
Idly, he followed it.  
  
It echoed off the corridor walls. The simple sound of footsteps.  
  
It led him deeper into the mountain, down stairs, along hallways. It seemed to taunt him, yet he found he had to follow. He could not let the rhythmic click of heels escape his hearing. And each time he thought he was almost upon the person creating the trail of sound, he would come around a corner and they would not be there, the heels still dancing on concrete off in the distance.  
  
He continued to follow, his steps becoming more determined, his pace more desperate. It was a lure, a taunt, an end to a rainbow he could never reach.  
  
Suddenly they stopped.  
  
He turned the corner.  
  
A dark haired woman hesitated, noting something down on her clipboard, before entering a room. Her heels clicked a steady beat on the concrete floor.  
  
Abruptly she turned, and for just a moment, there was another woman standing there, the echo of red hair and brown eyes burned into his retinas.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Sergeant Lyn Johns of Records Management looked up at him enquiringly. "Sir, is there something I can do for you?"  
  
He blinked, reality slamming down hard. His voice was hoarse. "No, carry on."  
  
She looked at him strangely before turning and entering the records office, the sound of her heels bouncing off the walls.  
  
Jack O'Neill backed up, stumbling in confusion. Why was he here? What the hell was going on?  
  
He crept into a nearby empty room, the dark reassuring in its blankness, its obscuring of detail a relief. He sat down just inside the door, listening to the Sergeant going about her business, the rustle of paper, the occasional humming, the sound of her footsteps.  
  
Heels on concrete.  
  
Such a reassuring sound.  
  
Eventually, lulled by its presence he drifted off to sleep, his hands curled up supporting his head, his legs drawn up protectively. The silence no longer threatened.  
  
And for a moment in his dreams she was there again, her soft brown eyes smiling at him.  
  
"Colonel, you are going to be fine." And she turned away, her footsteps echoing across the infirmary.  
  
His heart beat in time to the soft click-clack  
  
Heels on concrete.  
  
He was safe.  
  
********** FIN.  
  
In the name of Janet Fraiser, an illustration of how those in our lives can be taken so inexplicably and abruptly without the chance of a goodbye. Keep the memories alive, because there will come a time when they are all there is left. 


	15. The Bug

The Bug  
  
By Gumnut  
  
1 Sep 2003  
  
"Carter, what is that?"  
  
"That is a bug, sir."  
  
"What?"  
  
"A bug, sir."  
  
"What, no mind-bending English-breaking Latin word?"  
  
"No, Colonel, it is an alien life form, I doubt it has been classified yet."  
  
"So it doesn't have a name?"  
  
"I don't think so, sir."  
  
"So what do you think it might be?"  
  
"Well, it looks insectoid..."  
  
"Nuh, can't be an insect."  
  
"Colonel?"  
  
"It can't be an insect, it's got seven legs. All insects have six legs."  
  
"They do?"  
  
"What, you didn't know that?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You're kidding me."  
  
"Colonel, I'm an astrophysicist, not a zoologist."  
  
"I learnt that in high school."  
  
"I must've been sick that day...so what do YOU think it is?"  
  
"Well, it can't be arachnoid, not enough legs, but definitely some sort of arthropod...why are you looking at me like that? What?"  
  
"Umm, I guess I never thought you'd be interested in entomology."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The study of bugs."  
  
"Oh, I'm not...not really. It's just when you're out in the desert or jungle, know thy enemy can become know thy bugs."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Anyway, this bug needs a name."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"'Cause I'm bored, that's why. Sitting around here while Daniel plays with his rocks."  
  
"He won't be long now, he's nearly finished."  
  
"Okay, how about 'Fido'...Don't look at me like that...you're always looking at me like that."  
  
"You don't like me looking at you?"  
  
"Er, no it's not that...umm, how about Carteritis?"  
  
"Sounds like a disease,...sir."  
  
"Aah! I've got it...I dub thee...Oneillasaurus."  
  
"Hmmckph."  
  
"What? I think it's a good name."  
  
"Anything you say, sir."  
  
"It comes from a line of excellent names."  
  
"Sir."  
  
"From Sean O'Neill the warrior, to Eugene O'Neill the playwright, and, of course, that swimwear guy."  
  
"Um, sir."  
  
"Oh, mustn't forget that lighthouse guy."  
  
"Sir!"  
  
"Wha-"  
  
"It's crawling up your leg, sir."  
  
"Ack, get it off!...Get off me you - ack! God damn it, it bit me!"  
  
"Hold still, sir."  
  
"Is it off me? Is it gone?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Let me see that."  
  
"Carter...um...I don't..."  
  
"Colonel?! Colonel!...Daniel! Teal'c! Get back here now!"  
  
**********  
  
"Jack? Jack, come on, it's time to wake up now."  
  
"Wha?"  
  
"You're in the infirmary, everyone's okay. Do you remember what happened?"  
  
"Uh, Daniel...um, bug bit me."  
  
"According to Sam, you were bit by an Oneillasaurus."  
  
"Ha, ha, funny, Daniel. Do you have anything I could drink around here?"  
  
"Here. I'm not kidding, Jack. You were bitten by Eurycnema oneillasaurus. They had to name it. But you were wrong it was an insect. A type of stick insect actually. That seventh leg was what it bit you with."  
  
"You never fail to rub it in do you, Daniel."  
  
"Not with a chance like this, Jack."  
  
"Where's Carter?"  
  
"Right next to you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"She got bitten, too."  
  
"She okay?"  
  
"She will be. She was bitten sometime after you were and it takes awhile for the anti-venom to work."  
  
"Anti-venom?"  
  
"Yep. Janet outshone herself this time. I timed her - thirty-two minutes from diagnosis to cure. You are really pushing up her average.  
  
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"  
  
"What gave you that idea? No, seriously, Jack, we were worried, but Janet fixed it and you'll both be fine."  
  
"How'd Carter get bitten?"  
  
"There was another one in your pants."  
  
"What?"  
  
"She got bitten pulling your pants off while attempting first aid."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"And, ah, Jack, Teal'c and I want you to have this...a trophy of sorts."  
  
Daniel brought his hand out from behind his back. It was the bug, with a great big, fat, honkin' needle stuck through it, pinning it to a wooden block. A small inscription on the base said 'Eurycnema oneillasaurus - He came, he saw, he got bitten. Jack O'Neill, 2004.'  
  
**********  
  
FIN 


	16. Birthday

Birthday A drabble  
  
By Gumnut Oct 2003  
  
The flame flickered, teased by air movement.  
  
Light was reflected upon a pale face, as the wind whistled through the trees overhead, dragging the heat from the night.  
  
It was a birthday.  
  
A day of birth.  
  
Of rebirth.  
  
Today was the anniversary of the day he decided not to follow his son.  
  
So he lit a candle, and watched it struggle for life in the breeze.  
  
It reminded him that there was always a fight to be won, a challenge to be met.  
  
And a life to live.  
  
The flame may flicker, but he would refuse to let it die.  
  
********** FIN 


	17. The Examination

The Examination A scribble (just for Gidgit) by Numnut 15 Dec 2003  
  
"Carter, it's fine."  
  
"Sir, I need to have a look."  
  
"No."  
  
"Sir-"  
  
"Carter, no, and that is final!"  
  
The look in her eyes told him that it wasn't, and that he would have to put up with similar looks for the rest of the day if she didn't have some satisfaction. Some of his conclusion must have shown on his face because she suddenly half smiled.  
  
Okay, that was it. "Don't you dare laugh, Carter."  
  
"Would I do that?" The smile widened. So much for respect for your superiors.  
  
"I seem to remember one baudy tale at the last SGC Christmas party."  
  
"That was Daniel!"  
  
"Oh, so you had nothing to do with it, huh?"  
  
Her eyes darted everywhere but at him. "Oh, I thought so." He grimaced.  
  
"Colonel, we need to check for shrapnel."  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
"Oh, for crying out loud, Jack!" The surprise on her face at her own statement, reflected his own. Okay, perhaps it was time for a meek submission. It did actually hurt quite a bit.  
  
With a sigh of resignation he bent over. He had to be the one who sat on the Christmas decorations, didn't he.  
  
*********** FIN. 


	18. No one gets left behind

No one gets left behind. By Gumnut 19 Apr 2004  
  
Falling.  
  
Falling rain, like a thunderous drumbeat on an iron roof, it came down around them. A solid wall of water, crashing into the earth, throwing up dirt spun into mud, to splatter their clothing.  
  
They ran.  
  
Their feet pounding, weapons drawn, stricken yells as the air around them lit up with orange fire, steam clouds hissing in a sudden cycle of evaporation and condensation.  
  
The snap-chatter bark of the gun in his hands biting back was swallowed by the pine trees caught in the gusting wind.  
  
But suddenly they were no longer four.  
  
Suddenly they were three running souls in the pouring rain.  
  
One lay silent in the mud, a black singed burn in his back.  
  
Oh God.  
  
He slid in the slick, drawing a halt to his onward rush. Flame licked at his hair as he turned, spinning on a heel, yelling for the others to run. Black metal shuddering under his fingers as he covered himself, death and injury felling the pursuing Jaffa like wooden ducks in an amusement park.  
  
The sounds of anger and agony pierced the air.  
  
His hands found cloth and he pulled, and yanking his teammate vertical, flung him over his shoulder. No one gets left behind.  
  
One handed he fended them off. P-90 firing wildy, his own screams of defiance drowned out by the rain and, just as suddenly, the pain.  
  
It flared up his leg, and he buckled, he was down, his friend's weight pressing his face into the mud. He struggled to move, he struggled to breathe. No, damnit, it wouldn't end like this!  
  
And then hands were pulling at him, lifting him, gunfire throbbing with his heartbeat. He found his feet. Sam screamed something into his face and he was moving. No-one gets left behind.  
  
Through water-ridden eyesight he saw Teal'c standing protected by the gate at the edge of the wormhole, dealing out helpings of orange death of his own. His face snarled anger, simmering defiance.  
  
They didn't hesitate. He stumbled up the steps under the cover Teal'c provided, and threw himself and his injured friend through the wormhole to safety, landing in an unceremonious heap on the other side.  
  
There was quiet on this side of the gate. Despite the alarms, and despite the urgent chatter of the medical staff, he let himself relax back on the ramp.  
  
And knowing Jack was finally in safe hands, Daniel let the world drift away.  
  
**********  
  
FIN. 


	19. The Chair

The Chair By Gumnut Oct 2003  
  
Colonel Jack O'Neill was literally dragged into the room and thrown into the chair. He protested vehemently, but his cries were in vain.  
  
He didn't know what he had done to deserve this. His mind rifled through the events of the last few days and came up with nothing. It must be fate. It always had to be O'Neill, didn't it, the Universe's fall guy. It wasn't like he didn't pay his dues, no, he had saved Earth how many times now? But fate just seemed to want to take that bit extra. A little bit more of Jack O'Neill. Let's see how long it is before he finally cracks.  
  
He stared at the grey walls, dank and depressing. He couldn't expect much more from a torture chamber could he? And torture chamber it was. There was no other description. Various instruments were lined up on display, their purposes both obvious and vague enough to produce the necessary terror. He wanted to cast his eyes away from them, but a sick fascination had his sight locked in place.  
  
There were hooks.  
  
There were knives.  
  
There were oddly shaped pieces of metal that left the imagination to provide a possible use.  
  
His stomach crawled with tension.  
  
He had to get out of here.  
  
He checked the three other occupants in the room. Two of them were preparing various devices, obviously for use on him. The other....  
  
He made a break for it. His boots hit the floor, and he had made it halfway to the door before he was grabbed from behind.  
  
"No!"  
  
He struggled, but the hands that held him were Daniel's, and no matter how desperate he was, he couldn't hurt a friend. And Daniel knew it.  
  
Those same hands now turned him, and a pair of earnest, deluded eyes bore into his soul.  
  
"Jack, I made a promise. I'm sorry but this has to be done."  
  
Traitor.  
  
This is what happens when you soften, O'Neill. They get under your skin and you're vulnerable, and before you know it, you have made a crucial mistake brought on by the bonds of friendship, and you are looking down the barrel of a gun.  
  
You have no-one to blame but yourself. You knew Daniel. You knew this was possible. You knew the lengths he could go to.  
  
You knew that one day that friendship would break you.  
  
And it had brought him here.  
  
To this room.  
  
To these instruments.  
  
To a fate worse than death.  
  
Hands pushed him towards the chair once again, and he was forced to sit. A figure loomed over him. Threatening. Foreboding.  
  
An instrument was selected. An arm was raised.  
  
He would not give them what they wanted.  
  
He would not break.  
  
"Jack!"  
  
He darted his eyes in Daniel's direction. The pleading look on his face broke him in places he didn't know he had.  
  
"Jack, please."  
  
The face of his friend spoke of the desperate situation, of the reasons that had led to this event, and he suddenly realised that he had no choice.  
  
Surrender was the only option.  
  
He looked up.  
  
The figure loomed.  
  
"Now, open wide, Colonel O'Neill. This won't hurt a bit."  
  
God, he hated the Dentist.  
  
FIN. 


	20. Crust

Crust  
  
A drabble for the words 'pumpkin pie'  
  
By Gumnut   
  
25 Oct 2003  
  
It had a thin crust, almost like pumpkin pie.  
  
He touched it, and its surface depressed slightly, a fluid dribbling out of a broken edge.  
  
Weeks of inattention had led to this. He had been cut down, captured, and caged.  
  
The warm air had done the rest.  
  
His world now consisted of four walls and the tiny, mind numbing space between them. Not enough room to stand, barely enough to sit, his own waste his only company.  
  
He stared at the wound, almost fascinated by it.  
  
He fingered the scab again.  
  
Where there was pain, there was life.  
  
FIN. 


	21. Home

Home A drabble By Gumnut Oct 2003  
  
The scars were old, the skin was dry, and the eyes grew dim.  
  
But the spark remained.  
  
He did not fade away, age crumbling his mind.  
  
No, he fought.  
  
He grumbled, he complained, he whinged, and he whined.  
  
Life would not take him easily.  
  
But occasionally you would catch him softly smiling into the fire, memories dancing in his head.  
  
And he would return to a time where a team stood waiting.  
  
Ready to follow, ready to lead.  
  
Ready to welcome a tired old Colonel home.  
  
FIN 


	22. Air Pocket

Air Pocket  
Scribble for the word 'pockets'   
By Gumnut  
5 Jun 2004  
  
He gasped as the current caught him, forcing the little remaining air from his lungs in a stream of bubbles and replacing it with icy cold water. He was moving, he knew that much, but the all consuming pain in his chest as water tracked into places it had never been welcome, forced his attention away, strangling thought.  
  
Numb though his fingers were, he could still feel the rough rock scraping skin as he desperately fumbled for purchase to stop his headlong plunge into darkness. The faint icy blue light of escape and with it, freedom, was dwindling fast behind him.  
  
Crap.  
  
His vision was failing him and his head throbbed, the lack of oxygen and the godawful pain in his ribcage tipping him towards oblivion and the death that would surely accompany it.  
  
Not like this, goddamnit!  
  
He desperately tried to kick towards the surface, only to wrap his head around a rocky protrusion in the dark. Water roared in his ears as the bright flash of pain lit up his fading nerves.  
  
He fought.  
  
He fumbled.  
  
His fingers broke a surface, his knuckles rapping against a rocky ledge.  
  
Feeling the last chance he may ever have, he grabbed.  
  
The current lifted his feet up, drawing his body out to its full length, hanging against the frail anchor of his fingertips.  
  
He pulled, the last of his oxygen deprived strength failing as unconsciousness beckoned. Only pure stubbornness kept him alert.  
  
Two agonising seconds later, his face broke the surface to join his fingers.  
  
It wasn't much, and it bounced the sound of his own desperate coughing gasps for air back at him, the solid rock of the cave ceiling inches away from his face.  
  
Air pocket.  
  
Only a delay to death.  
  
God.  
  
He took it for what it was, and breathed deeply, clinging hands cold white as his only purchase against the current, which still whipped at his body.  
  
Damn, Daniel anyway.  
  
But he knew it wasn't the archaeologist's fault. He had no one to blame but himself.  
  
Himself and his own stupid sense of justice, his inability to sacrifice a child for any reason.  
  
He would rather sacrifice himself.  
  
And he had.  
  
Now all he had to do was follow through.  
  
But his own innate sense of survival fought for him the entire way. Jack O'Neill did not give up with out a fight.  
  
The air was already beginning to thicken, the oxygen replaced with his exhalations of useless carbon dioxide. Time was running short.  
  
But if there was one air pocket, there may be others.  
  
Hope springs eternal.  
  
With a deep breath of the last of the air available, Jack let his fingers slip.  
  
And the current spun him into the dark.  
  
--------------------  
FIN.


	23. The Pants were Tight

The Pants were Tight  
By Gumnut  
Mar 2004  
  
The pants were tight, restricting, but they did fit him. The fact they were black was a given and he felt slightly uncomfortable as it was a colour he rarely chose to wear.  
  
He tucked the red shirt into his waistband and did up the zipper, turning to appraise himself in the mirror. Hmm, not bad. Black boots, tight black leather clad legs, slim waist, dashing red shirt with a scrap of silver hair to finish the image off. Hmm. Lobbing the heavy leather jacket onto his shoulder, he struck a pose. Oh, God, O'Neill, you look ridiculous. But it didn't stop a smile from creeping up one side of his face.  
  
Grabbing his keys and his wallet, he stuffed them in a pocket. Why he was doing this, he didn't know. Part of him was going woohoo, the other was a little worried for his sanity.  
  
But it was too late now. The arrangements had been made, and there was no way he was going to get out of this without some serious pie on his face.  
  
So he forced himself out the front door and onto the footpath.  
  
He couldn't see them, but he knew the neighbours were watching. Two minutes after his appearance on the sidewalk, Mrs McLeod, two houses down the street on the other side, suddenly decided it was a great time to cut her front lawn.  
  
Jack didn't even want to acknowledge the head that butted up over the fence two houses in the other direction, on his side. He was well aware of young Claire's longstanding affection for him.  
  
He rubbed a hand across his thigh. Damn the leather was that old, it felt soft.  
  
There was a crash in the shrubbery to his right and he vehemently started wishing his ride would hurry up and turn up.  
  
The echo of a motor bounced between the houses heralding his friend's entrance long before the motorbike appeared at the end of the street.  
  
He eyeballed the rider who was clad in similar black leather, the tight material outlining a definitely different shape to the one his own leather was hugging.  
  
A visor flicked up and a pair of eyes traced his leather skins up and down before handing him a helmet. Oh, god, make it obvious why don't you. He glared back, shoving the colonel to the fore, obvious in his own way that they should get going before an ambulance was called for young Hoo one house over to the west. He'd seen her fall in that rose bush before.  
  
He didn't need to say anything, his reprimand rather clear, so he climbed on the bike, wrapping his hands around a waist and, he had to admit to himself, clinging on for dear life.  
  
"You ready?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
The engine was gunned and they tore off down the street.  
  
And all Jack could think was, 'Daniel, if you tell Carter about these bike lessons, your coffee machine is toast.'  
  
---------------------------  
FIN. 


	24. Fire, Air, Water, Ice, Life, Deathand Pi...

Fire  
Part 1 of the Cliffhanger series  
By Gumnut   
Oct 2003  
  
10.  
  
Three sets of eyes, one order.  
  
"Run!"  
  
9.  
  
Lungs heaving in the crisp, cold air.  
  
8.  
  
Feet crunching, crushing delicate snowflakes in every panicked step.  
  
7.  
  
It had to happen, this goa'uld had to go. He prayed he wouldn't take them with him.  
  
6.  
  
His breath fogged, his lungs fighting the cold..  
  
5.  
  
Skirting around a boulder he stumbled in the soft snow, seconds from falling on his face.  
  
4.  
  
O'Neill get your ass in gear and run!  
  
3.  
  
Check position of others, okay, safe.  
  
2.  
  
Prep for explosion. Jump, roll, attempt to hide.  
  
1.  
  
Oh, god, missed.  
  
0.  
  
--------------------

Air  
Part 2 of the Cliffhanger series  
By Gumnut   
Oct 2003  
  
The world shook, a shockwave of heat and shrapnel shredding the air around him. He was pushed, he was tossed, he lost his footing and fell.  
  
He tumbled.  
  
Rolling.  
  
Over and over.  
  
Down the mountain, without control, without brake.  
  
His body meeting many obstacles, but none slowing his pace well enough to stop it. God, he was gonna pay for this one in the morning.  
  
His head hit a rock and he saw stars.  
  
Hands groped for purchase and found none, clambering heat in the icy cold snow.  
  
And he let out a yell as the world disappeared beneath him.  
  
--------------------

Water  
Part 3 of the Cliffhanger series.  
By Gumnut   
Oct 2003  
  
He floated in air.  
  
Then he fell.  
  
Hard rock came up under his hands and he grabbed. Pain, as his shoulders were nearly wrenched out of their sockets.  
  
He hung there, the wind whistling around him as his breathing came in gasps. Silence surrounded him with deadly promise.  
  
It was broken by an ominous roar.  
  
And he looked up to see the mountain following him down.  
  
A sheet of molten white, coming to take him. Some days it was better to stay in bed.  
  
He closed his eyes, shielding himself the best he could, and the world took him away.  
  
--------------------

Ice.  
Part 4 of the Cliffhanger series.  
By Gumnut   
Oct 2003  
  
He swam for his life.  
  
The snow came up around him, took him, and swept him away.  
  
He strived for the surface, knowing that once the avalanche came to settle, he would be trapped.  
  
And he would die, buried in ice.  
  
He couldn't allow that to happen. He had responsibilities. A team who was counting on him.  
  
So he swam for his life.  
  
Arm over arm, towards what he hoped was the surface, a lighter shade of white.  
  
He breathed in snow, his lungs struggling for air.  
  
A hand broke the surface....  
  
And the white solidified around him.  
  
Too late.  
  
--------------------

Life.  
Part 5 of the Cliffhanger series  
By Gumnut   
Oct 2003  
  
Breathe.  
  
There is only one thing you have to do at the moment, O'Neill and that is breathe.  
  
It is dark.  
  
It is cold.  
  
It is ice.  
  
And it has him in its clutches.  
  
And he can't escape.  
  
So he must breathe.  
  
Or die, suffocating on snow.  
  
Breathe.  
  
In.  
  
Out.  
  
Hope is all there is.  
  
They will come.  
  
He will be found.  
  
In.   
  
Out.  
  
Breathe.  
  
In.  
  
Out.  
  
In.  
  
Out.  
  
Breathe.  
  
It is your life. You have much to live for. Do not give up.  
  
Do not let the ice win.  
  
In.   
  
Out.  
  
In.  
  
Out....  
  
Breathe.  
  
In.  
  
Out.  
  
In.  
  
Out....  
  
Silence.  
  
--------------------

Death.  
Part 6 of the Cliffhanger series.  
By Gumnut   
Oct 2003  
  
They ran.  
  
Every muscle in their bodies pushed them down the mountain.  
  
They had no time.  
  
He had no time.  
  
If he was alive.  
  
Daniel stumbled, but didn't even pause, up on his feet running again within moments.  
  
When they reached where he fell, they were confronted by a vast sea of ice.  
  
And somewhere beneath its surface was their commanding officer.  
  
An impossible task.  
  
But they attempted it anyway.  
  
It took a long time, and they almost missed it.  
  
Blue with the cold of death, a single motionless hand reached out to them, a silent plea from the ice.  
  
They had found him.  
  
--------------------

...And Pizza  
Part 7 of the Cliffhanger series.  
By Gumnut   
Oct 2003  
  
It smelled wonderful.  
  
Hot cheese dripping over pepperoni, capsicum, ham, and more cheese.  
  
He felt his mouth water.  
  
He felt his nose itch.  
  
His toes itch.  
  
His arm hurt.  
  
His chest hurt.  
  
And his throat rasp.  
  
Pizza?  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
One pizza.  
  
Five sets of concerned eyes.  
  
"Hi, Kids."  
  
"Welcome back, Colonel."  
  
"What did I do this time?"  
  
Sam. "Well, there was an explosion and you fell."  
  
Daniel. "Off a cliff."  
  
Teal'c. "Were buried in an avalanche."  
  
Hammond. "And froze to death."  
  
Fraiser. "But I'm sure you are fine now. Want some pizza?"  
  
Jack. "Don't mind if I do."  
  
--------------------  
THE END. 


	25. Dissonance

Dissonance  
Hardly worth the name 'scribble'  
By Gumnut  
27 Sep 2004

A dissonance in the wind.

An echo of a premonition.

He ducked.

The air above him whistled as an unknown projectile flew through where he had been. It thunked into the tree behind him and gave birth to a silence broken only by the sigh of the breeze.

His eyes darted, their whites shining in the poor light as they fixed themselves to their surroundings. An eyebrow twitched.

This was no trap.

They were not alone.

Carter was off to his left, as still as he. Daniel was behind him, the archaeologist no longer just the scientist, now carved in stone.

Their fourth was absent, just a memory, scouting the perimeter. O'Neill's ace in the hole.

He twitched a finger and his second moved, her boots whispering on fallen leaves. She took up position behind a tree; weapon in hand, body ready. Another quick motion and Daniel mimicked her movements, but off to the right.

In the distance an alien creature barked into the forest and a leaf rustled out of synch.

Two dark eyes narrowed.

Indrawn breath. A word.

And SG-1 moved.

------------------  
FIN.


	26. In Memoriam

In Memoriam  
A scribble in answer to the challenge 'In memory'  
By Gumnut  
12 Sep 2004

His feet caught on the tangle of weeds poking through the long overgrown, crumbling pavement and he almost stumbled. He didn't say anything, words long ago taken from his lips, but a single exasperated breath was exhaled into the air, only to fog and coil in the cold, a slight mist enveloping his face.

He had had to come.

Despite her denials, despite her desperation for his happiness, he came every year to this place.

And now her pleas were forever silenced, he felt the urge to come even more.

To keep the memory alive.

This had once been a place of activity. Of people, trade, commerce. The stark stone ring a window to a world he had never seen. Now it lay derelict, deserted, and alone.

Forgotten.

By all but him.

The land was the same it had always been, the great circular bowl of the devastation still surrounding the gate of elegant rock, its silhouette standing tall, imposing, an announcement of itself and what it could provide.

And deny.

His mother had told him many a time of the events that had led to and then followed its brilliant display of water-filled energy. He even remembered it in action a few times himself, from way back when he was very young, hiding behind her skirts.

She had come then, almost religiously. Hope had been a tactile entity clawing at her, waving a tantalising possibility before her that would never be realised.

He kicked the stones at his feet, once again caressed by the possibility of a return.

The human mind could be a heinous thing. There was a fine line between tease and torture.

He had never returned.

Never answered her hopes.

Never answered his own.

The empty ring gaped mockery at him.

No one came through the gate now. No one, much less him. And now his mother was dead, he was only left to wonder, to create his own answers to questions he would never be able to pose to the one man he would want to ask them of.

The stargate stood in memoriam. Of a time. Of a possibility.

Of Jack O'Neill.

Colonel from another world.

Of a man who would be his father.

------------------  
FIN.


	27. O'Neill

O'Neill  
An illustrated scene from 'Lost City'  
By Gumnut  
1 Oct 2004

The ship was breaking its own laws in its attempt to get where they were going, and a fine shudder ran through the bulkhead he was leaning against.

He ignored it. His concentration was solely on the man kneeling in the centre of the room, oblivious to his presence and anything else other than what he was working on.

They were losing him piece by agonising piece and there wasn't a thing any of them could do for him.

Teal'c swallowed, briefly touching a finger to the tattoo in the centre of his forehead. The gold just under his skin was smooth and warm with his body heat, and the tracing of the symbol reminded him, as it always did, of what he owed the man he now followed.

He would forever remember the look on O'Neill's face as he beckoned the First Prime of Apophis to save himself and his team, beckoned him to desert a life he loathed yet saw no escape from, to save himself. Somehow in the few short minutes O'Neill had, he had seen what Teal'c had been hiding from the world for so long. Seen through the façade he had been forced to wear, to the man underneath. Those dark eyes had pierced him to his soul, and he had given them everything he had.

That gaze was now turned from him, but through the muddle of what had been forced on the man's mind, O'Neill was still fighting the fight, still saving his team, his planet. His mission objective was still the same, and with his last breath, Teal'c knew O'Neill would give everything he had, because that was what he was. Nothing could change that.

But despite the need, despite the stakes, despite the meaning behind what O'Neill was willing to sacrifice, there was something in Teal'c that was simply tearing asunder as he watched the Colonel fall towards the inevitable.

He was losing O'Neill.

He was losing a friend.

Behind the soldier, the duty, and the mission, there was a person that Teal'c had connected with. A man who had introduced him to pizza, beer, and the many other oddities of his planet. He had offered with grace and good humour, laughing at his faux pas, goading him into situations he would otherwise had avoided, but at all times understanding, listening, being there both as a commander and a companion.

The world just wouldn't seem right without him anymore.

There had to be a way.

Teal'c had regrets, but at the moment the one that haunted him the most was the fact he hadn't been fast enough, hadn't been decisive enough. Hadn't stopped O'Neill from making the ultimate sacrifice.

Hadn't sacrificed himself.

He no longer possessed a Goa'uld symbiont, there was no reason why the Ancient device would have not have accepted him as a substitute.

But he hadn't thought quickly enough, hadn't realised O'Neill's intentions until it was too late.

Of the four members of the team, he considered himself the most expendable.

So why hadn't he taken that step?

His attention was drawn back to the centre of the room.

O'Neill was mumbling to himself.

Teal'c could not understand what he was saying, but had no doubt that it was Ancient. He still understood brief snatches of the language from his episode with the looping time device, and he knew that, despite his denials, O'Neill did too, but he did not know enough to decipher what was being said.

He had no idea what O'Neill was saying and, at the same time, no idea what he was doing either. It was most frustrating at a time when the one thing he did know was that O'Neill was dying.

He moved away from the entrance way and walked into the room. The Colonel didn't react to his motion, still busily fiddling with equipment the man didn't normally know how to pronounce the name of, much less use.

"Are you preparing a weapon for battle, O'Neill?"

A brief shake of his head, uncoordinated with his expression. A lost look in his eyes as his personality was muffled by the knowledge crowding his brain.

Teal'c tried again.

"Sensors have detected an armada of Goa'uld ships in orbit around Earth." An appeal to the soldier within.

This time there was no response at all. Tinkering fingers. Teal'c squelched the urge to catch those hands and force the man to look at him. His stomach knotted and he frowned, a desperation building inside him, fighting against the inevitable.

"Can you understand anything that I am saying, O'Neill?"

Nothing.

Inside Teal'c, something broke.

Had he lost the man he so admired already?

He bent down, crouching to reach his eye level, to perhaps distract him by proximity. The hope of a last thread of the man he called friend hanging on against the onslaught, one he could reach before all was lost.

"O'Neill, I wish for you to know tha-"

Suddenly those eyes latched onto him, their darkness piercing him to his soul. A hand reached up and touched his cheek, its warmth seeping into his skin.

And he knew.

He knew why.

He knew what.

And he knew there was no other way.

A sensation, not of his own making, passed over him, catching him in its current. O'Neill's touch flared with warmth and the last seven years of friendship were simply illustrated in emotion.

O'Neill already knew.

And he should have known.

The moment snapped and the hand fell to his shoulder. Teal'c was forced to watch as the man behind those eyes was swallowed under by the assault on his brain once again, but for a moment he did all he could to express a response.

He bowed his head in respect.

The touch briefly tightened on his shoulder and then O'Neill was gone once again.

The hands were tinkering.

Teal'c could do little but watch.

But he knew.

And it would have to be enough.

Because in the end it might be all he had left.

------------------  
FIN. 


	28. Which One

Which one  
A drabble for the word 'o'possum'  
By Gumnut  
13 Aug 2006

"Which one is which?"

The General peered into the cage, frowning.

Sam bit her lip as yet another screech battered her ears.

One of Teal'c's eyelids flinched.

She felt like swatting the man. Stoicism had its place, but just for once she'd like to not be the only member of SG-1 who became hysterical every time something like this happened.

She sighed and looked into the cage. One of the o'possum-like creatures had the other cornered and was screeching furiously and flexing its claws.

"I think the Colonel is the angry one. He did ask Daniel not to touch anything."

-o-o-o-  
FIN.


	29. Change

Change  
A response to the SG-1 Backstory challenge 'change'  
By Gumnut  
Aug 2006

The wind howled at him. It grabbed at his hair, raked its fingers across his face and bit its cold and spiny teeth into his cheek.

Rain was coming.

He picked at the piece of wood in his hands. He felt more like Grizzly Adams than a Colonel in the United States Air Force. Of course, here there were no bears, or pine trees…who would have thought he'd start to miss pine trees? This place had an equivalent, but it just wasn't quite the same.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

He'd found the piece of gnarled wood beneath a misu tree, one of those equivalents. In fact he'd tripped over the knob, much to the amusement of his spectators. A sarcastic, har-de-har-har in their direction did little to halt their mirth. But then he had been smiling as well.

Wood.

Idly he pulled the knife from his boot and began chipping at the bark.

Robinson Crusoe? That had never been a career goal. Yet here he was. It had always been a risk, of course, but as with all risks, it was human nature to deny the actual possibility of it occurring. It's not like he jumped in his truck every morning thinking he'd have a fatal car accident on the way to the mountain. That was a risk he took every day…as was walking through that gate.

Never to return.

Chips flew and the lump took on shape, though nothing recognisable.

If someone from the SGC dared ask him what he missed most, he wasn't sure he would be able to answer truthfully. It wasn't that he didn't know; it was more of a case that he didn't want to admit it to anyone other than himself. And that had been hard enough as it was.

He hooked the point in a knot and the blade bent. He eased off. The knife was irreplaceable here.

He did miss the team, that went without saying. The general, the SGC, his truck, hell, he missed the Simpsons. The TV he'd have to catch up on when he got back...

Home.

Would he get home?

The sound of music was barely heard above the howl of the wind, but lights flickered in windows. They had lost as much as he, if not more. But life moved on. They were rebuilding, saying their goodbyes.

And they were urging him to do the same.

He wasn't ready.

Part of him was still clinging to hope, fragile though it was.

His lips thinned as he pressed them together and dug the knife into wood.

What were they doing back at the SGC? Had they given up? Random thoughts of memorial services, the MIA listing in his record. Who was looking after his house? Who was watering that damn plant Daniel had given him a couple of months ago along with a twenty dollar bet that it would die forgotten? The team, no doubt.

Mrs McGregor next door would know he was gone. If it weren't for the hose she sprayed over the fence from time to time, his backyard would be far less green than it was. He idly thought up excuses for this absence, knowing she'd believe them about as much as she had others in the past. Which was to say not at all. But then she never questioned him.

He had new neighbours now.

And the questions never ended.

The knife chiselled around yet another knot and he flicked splinters off the little carving. Lightning flickered and briefly the figurine was lit up in its full relief.

He was no artist, but for just a moment, just a split second, she was smiling.

And he could believe.

She was coming for him.

-o-o-o-  
FIN.


	30. Sober Sobriquet

Sober Sobriquet  
By Gumnut  
23 May 2004

He had been known by many names.

They had called him the God of Thunder, terrified of his wrath. They had huddled in fear in their crude mud shelters, screamed at the sight of him, trembled as he passed them by. He was considered a god.

On one planet in particular they had named him 'Punnaweke' which loosely translated as 'He who walks with the mighty'. On another he was 'Sanguinia', 'Escort to the rising sun'. And the entire galaxy of Pnora worshipped him as 'The Silver One'.

But never…NEVER…in his thousands of years of existence had he ever been called…

"O'Neill."

"Yes, Thor?"

"What exactly is a muppet?"

-o-o-o-  
FIN.


	31. Beginnings

Beginnings  
By Gumnut  
11 Oct 2007

It was cold, the metal only warming under his touch, blurring in and out of focus.

He blinked rapidly.

And caressed it.

Smooth barrel. The soft indentation of manufacture. A familiar nick in the grip.

Ever so cold.

It had been warm the last time he had held it. The warmth had been fleeting, but he had felt it anyway, the sensation branding into his skin as if hot enough to burn. He hadn't taken the time to consider it at the moment of touch, there had been far too much to consider. Screaming. Denial.

Tears.

But afterwards, after the blood, the terror, the stains on the walls and carpet, after cleaning the car while his mind hid in an emotionless numbness, that was the detail he remembered.

A fluttering warmth that faded as fast as its creator.

Gone.

Only cold remained.

It blurred again and he swallowed.

He could take the cold away. The metal mocked him and his fingers trembled. But sitting here on the edge of his bed, surrounded by that same warmth, smiling pictures and abandoned toys, how could he?

How could he?

Cold.

So cold.

He heard the knock. Heard the door. Voices far away and muttering. Footsteps.

The gun slid under the mattress, hidden from sight.

But not from mind. It was an ending that held all his answers.

To ward off the cold.

But then a beginning walked in the door.

-o-o-o-

_Jack O'Neill  
Stargate SG-1  
beginnings (**fanfic100**)  
238_


	32. A scene I couldn't resist writing

A scene I couldn't resist writing  
By Gumnut

Jack's feet hit the ground and he ran.

"Daniel!"

"Jack, can you believe this? They're-"

"I know, I know." He grabbed the archaeologist's arm and dragged him along faster. Carter and Teal'c were way ahead of them. "But these are real and they have teeth, Daniel." His feet just weren't fast enough.

"But think of what we could learn!" O'Neill's grip tightened as the gate came into view.

"Their dietary requirements? We'll come back better equipped, I promise. Now move!"

They ran, Carter dialling the moment she reached the DHD. Teal'c had his staff weapon tracking in defence of the gate, but in his heart O'Neill knew they were too late.

He could smell it in the air.

Just as the wormhole erupted into existence, the predator he knew had been following them pounced into the clearing.

The ground shook as several ton of alien dinosaur-wannabe landed in the dust. Resembling Godzilla's girlfriend, no less, and as tall as the trees, it towered over the two men. Its stinking hot breath played with their hair.

"Crap!" O'Neill dove to one side, dragging Daniel with him into the underbrush as the sing song sound of Teal'c's staff weapon raked the air.

"Colonel!" Carter's voice was eaten by one hell of an almighty roar and the creature took a step towards the stargate.

"Goddamnit! Go!" Jack and Daniel ran for the trees, skirting around the clearing in a desperate attempt to get closer to the gate. Daniel was mumbling something about Jack being right and what had he been thinking and…"Daniel, shut up!"

Teal'c continued to fire at the giant lizard, but though it flinched, the weapon was having little effect other than to anger it. Carter rained it with bullets with even less reaction on its part. Both of them were backing towards the gate, Carter's eyes darting towards where she knew Jack and Daniel were hiding.

O'Neill shouted into his radio. "For God's sake, Carter, go!"

She heard him; he could see it in her eyes. One last glance in their direction as the creature advanced, and she grabbed Teal'c's arm, both of them vanishing into the rippling event horizon.

A moment later the wormhole shutdown.

The creature snarled and snorted as if confused by the gate. It sniffed at it, gave it a nudge with its shoulder enough to shake it on its pedestal…and bellowed enough to make O'Neill's ears hurt.

Then, losing interest, it turned and sniffed the air.

Jack held his breath. If it…

It turned in their direction, its head tilted. A snort and its eyes narrowed in concentration.

Damn.

-o-o-o-


	33. Honourable man

Title: Honourable man  
Author: Gumnut  
Fandom: Stargate SG-1  
Rating: PG  
Summary: He was an honourable man, but...  
Word count: 263  
Spoilers & warnings: none, pre-season 8  
Author's notes: Answer to **libraryofwinds** challenge 'bubble'.

Honourable man  
Scribble for the word 'bubble'  
By Gumnut  
7 Jul 2006

Sam Carter loved the man.

She couldn't help it.

He was strong, capable, and a force to contend with should he be crossed. He had pulled her out of many a scrape, saved her life and the lives of SG-1 more times than she could count. He was the core of the team. Where Daniel was the soul, the colonel was the heart, and he gave his all.

She stared at him across the briefing room table, not above eyeing him from table propped ankles to mussed up grey hair. And those eyes…

She glanced back down at the clipboard in her hand, and gritted her teeth.

Yes, he was an honourable man. A role model for the rest of them.

Where on earth was General Hammond?

Honourable man. Jack O'Neill. She scratched out a figure with her pen. Incorrect. Incorrect.

Her gaze flickered up for another glance at him. Only he could exhibit such confidence in such a casual pose. Only he would dare to put his feet up on the briefing room table. It was the same arrogance that he displayed to their captors when captured. That same determination that stared fate in the face and dared it to do its worst.

It was the reason he survived. The reason they did.

Teal'c was eyeing him curiously.

Daniel was buried in his laptop.

She sighed.

Jack O'Neill. Stubborn, determined man. Honourable man.

She loved him, she couldn't help it.

But damnit, if he didn't stop blowing and popping bubblegum bubbles, she was going to do Anubis a favour and kill him.

-o-o-o-


	34. Maverick

Maverick  
A drabble  
By Gumnut  
16 Nov 2003

It was the eyes.

They were different.

They never looked down. They never looked away.

They glared, they stormed, and they flashed with fire.

And they never shed a tear.

They were different.

Maverick.

In a world of same.

They often glanced at her, questions drifting on the air, with softness, a gentleness, a hint of within.

Beyond the steel of his countenance.

He worked as she did, toiled as everyone else, sweat dripping from his brow, grease staining a worn skin, scarred by labour,

But there was something about his eyes.

They were different.

And Thera knew not why.

-o-o-o-


	35. Priorities

Priorities  
A drabblish for 'tick tock'  
By Gumnut  
19 Jun 2004

Time was short.

Damnit, Carter hurry up!

He caught her eyes and he knew she knew, but there was no urgency there.

He glanced at Daniel, but the archaeologist avoided him, concentrating on Sam as she spoke.

Only Teal'c seemed to realise the importance of the situation, an edginess to his stance, and perhaps a hint of worry in his calm gaze.

Godamnit!

Even the clock on the wall taunted him, counting the seconds down, continually telling him that his time was running out.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Hammond caught his eye and he flinched. "Colonel? Is there something wrong?"

He made the calculations in his head. Time available, capability of successful charade, possibility of court martial. He sighed.

"No, sir."

You save the world several times over, yet you don't even get to watch the Simpsons Halloween Special. Life really sucks.

-o-o-o-


	36. Over the edge

Over the edge  
By Gumnut  
9 Jun 2006

He struggled to the surface, gasping and gulping in air. A blurred image of Jaffa and jungle greens etched itself into his retinas, but was quickly replaced by more murk and lack of oxygen.

A yell did reach his ears, probably his name, but he barely heard it above the throb of his own pulse and the scream of the pain in his leg.

Jack O'Neill. Monster food.

He twisted, fighting the pull of the creature attached to his foot. Damnit! Light disappeared as he was yanked deeper into the murk and he was forced to grope in the dark, seeking out his attacker.

His lungs ached.

Fingertips scratched across scaly skin, cold as the water surrounding it. There! He dug in a grip with one hand and fished for his knife with his other.

It was getting darker, but this time it had nothing to do with light.

He struck out, the blade, made in the good ol' U. S. of A., picked up what little illumination there was and briefly flickered before impaling itself in slippery hide.

The grip on his ankle disappeared.

He exhaled stale bubbles and with his last, reached up towards salvation.

But if it weren't for strong Jaffa arms, he wouldn't have made it. As it was, the light faded as much as it brightened and he lost his hold on consciousness long before he reached air.

He was just lucky that his team never lost their hold on him.

-o-o-o-


	37. Finally found

Title: Finally found  
Fandom: Stargate SG-1  
Prompt: garbage (Jackfic drabble word)  
Word Count: 100, ooh, look a drabble :D  
Rating: PG, just for fun  
Summary: They finally found what he wanted them to find.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"No, sir."

"You're sure?"

"Pretty much. The signs are in standard Goa'uld. Even I can read a few of them."

"You can read Goa'uld?"

"It has been eight years, sir. You're not the only one with a gift for languages."

"Oh." He hadn't known she knew about that.

"But yes, we're pretty sure. Teal'c is preparing a sample for transport back to the SGC."

"Any big ones?"

"Yes, General." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Even several that honk."

"Cool."

"Absolutely." That smile had become a grin.

"In a garbage heap?"

"Uh-huh."

-o-o-o-


	38. Frustration

Frustration  
A drabble for the word 'pillow'  
By Gumnut  
30 Aug 2006

Sometimes he just pissed her off.

She knew he meant well, but hell, he could have done without the hole in his leg. And they could have done without having him injured.

Damn male chivalry.

Sure, he would do it for any member of the team, but when he did it for her it always seemed like he was trying to protect her specifically. As if he wanted to cushion her, hold out a pillow for the girl in the group.

It was frustrating.

And he didn't seem to realise one thing.

He couldn't protect her from his own death.

-o-o-o-


	39. Faith

Title: Faith  
Fandom: Stargate SG-1  
Prompt: obstacle (**libraryofwinds**)  
Word Count: 222  
Rating: PG, thought  
Spoilers: Season 6  
Summary: He didn't know, but he knew.

I don't know when I started to rely on it. Hell, experience has taught me many a time never to rely on anything or anyone more than necessary. Too many chances to betray that trust. Too much pain as a result.

But somewhere, perhaps in that ever spinning wormhole, I lost my wariness and dared to believe.

Is it hope? I guess it could be. Tactical advantage? Most assuredly. But can I measure it? Can I quantify what it is that has me so sure? What is my guarantee? What has led me to rely on it so confidently to the point of absolute faith?

I don't know. No doubt Daniel would give me a psychological spiel if he was available to ask.

But he's not.

It's just me.

And Maybourne. Don't get me started on that…please.

But regardless of how, or why, or even where for that matter, I know. It's been proven.

Perhaps that's it. Perhaps I know because it's happened before. Because even at the worst moments, when I had given up, I was proven wrong.

Perhaps that is where I began to believe.

I don't know. But what I do know, with certainty, is that no matter the obstacle, no matter the cost, she will not give up.

And if it is humanly possible…

She will find me.

-o-o-o-


	40. Mourn for the memory

Title: Mourn for the memory

Title: Mourn for the memory  
Author: Gumnut  
Fandom: Stargate SG-1  
Characters: Jack  
**Rating: R for sexual references**  
Summary: He didn't remember much  
Word count: 252  
Spoilers & warnings: none  
Disclaimer: Mine? You gotta be kidding. Money? Don't have any, don't bother.

Mourn for the Memory  
By Numnut  
29 May 2004

Hands.

He remembered hands.

But he didn't remember whose.

Skin touching his, soft, warm, fingernails pressing into his back.

Heat.

Emotion.

Lips touching, feather light, then hungry, urgent, calling, biting his name into his neck.

Excitement.

Legs wrapped around his.

Hot breath ragged on his cheek.

A release that shook him, the world spinning.

A voice, a cry in the night.

Sweat running down his back.

He remembered hands.

"Colonel?"

He looked up at the doctor, seeing the concern on his face as a mere echo of the worry in his own mind. He didn't want to answer.

"Colonel, I know this is hard, but I am only here to help you."

He still didn't answer, only reaching to finger the bandage swaddling half his head, resisting the urge to rip it off once and for all.

"What do you remember?"

He didn't look at the man, not knowing if he had known him before the incident or not, but taking a firm dislike to him in any case. The concrete wall was far more interesting.

The doctor sighed, flipping his clipboard onto the desk, the clatter of the plastic echoing in the silent room. "I can't help you if you won't help yourself."

Without a word, Jack stood up and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

He didn't remember much.

But he did remember one thing.

Love.

He just didn't remember who.

The explosion had taken far more than just his recollection.

But how could he mourn without the memory?

-o-o-o-


	41. Snapshot from the air

Snapshot from the Air  
A scene  
By Gumnut  
Mar 2004

The scream of burning atmosphere. The wail of engines strained to do the impossible. The spin of grey stained blue alternating with the black and orange of dying civilisation.

His hands ached on the controls, his sweat gluing his gloves to his palms, his bared fingertips, red, daring blisters. No flight suit. No preparation. Just raw Jack O'Neill and the machine keeping him alive.

Fire blossomed in a spray of orange to his right, his reflexes spinning the bird away, arching far to the left, only to encounter another exploding brilliance that burned itself into his retinas, leaving a dark shadow in his eyesight.

His wing caught the blast and flared. The hull scorched, flame flickering briefly as whatever constituted paint on this planet burned itself into its component gases and blackened solids. But the fire did not hold, and he was lucky, the wing survived intact continuing to tease the wind as he conquered the sky.

He flipped the glider, cutting speed, and arcing back past the following enemy, dodging. His world was a mass of blur punctuated by the sounds of wretching and the scent of abrupt air sickness, but his thought was as focussed as his expression was grim.

Nothing mattered.

Nothing but life and death.

He preferred the former, but would take the latter if in the process he managed to deal out some of his own taking this goddamned stinking Goa'uld with him.

-o-o-o-


	42. Snapshot from the backseat

Snapshot from the Backseat  
Accompaniment to Snapshot from the Air  
By Gumnut  
9 Apr 2004

His world was inside out and all over his lap. The smell of himself cloyed his nostrils as the spin of grey and blue twisted his stomach, but he knew it was all that stood between him and death.

That and the man in the seat in front of him.

His pilot's hair stood up haphazardly above the instrument panel, its silver punctuated by scattered flecks of red. Each strand shivered as the man punched buttons, swung controls, and cursed the enemy to their death.

Jack was possessed.

Daniel had never seen him like this, never seen him so focussed, so determined. Blood ran down the side of the Colonel's face unnoticed as his head turned following a possible threat. The world spun again. Daniel swallowed his stomach, lost to the vagaries of fate and the skill of those hands.

"You bastard! Damn!"

Brilliance blinded him and a sudden hot wind blasted his face. Stray syllables of anger bounced off the shattered canopy.

Air roared in his ears.

"Daniel!" His name scattered.

"Daniel!"

Jack had turned to face him, his dark, angry eyes piercing through smoke. "Daniel!" Blood suddenly clouded his vision, masking it in red. What?

Hands grabbed him and suddenly he was falling. A flash of heat and pain.

Darkness.

-o-o-o-


	43. Spook

Spook  
A scribble for the word 'spook'  
By Gumnut  
19 Oct 2004/14 Jun 2006

This was worse than his dress uniform.

"You sure we have to wear this outfit?"

"Jack, you know the answer to that, you were the one who gave the order."

"I could rescind it."

"Sure, Jack, go for it."

Muttered grumble.

"It's just that I feel so stupid."

"Is that something out of the usual?"

"Hey, low blow, plant boy."

"You asked for it. Stop complaining."

"Complaining? Who said I was complaining? I was simply commenting."

"Hmph."

"You're snippy today."

"Of course I am, I have to wear this silly outfit."

"Hah! So you see my point."

"I see your point, Jack. I just don't complain as much about it."

"It is your fault, you know."

"My fault? I repeat myself – you gave the order."

"It wasn't an order."

"Could've fooled me."

"Seems I did."

"Hmph."

Silence interrupted by various mumblings and rustling of fabric.

"You know, Teal'c would have been better at this."

"What gives you that idea?"

"He has the right colouring."

"Daniel, you were there when Carter asked him. Would you like to face that face again?"

"You've got a point."

"So you're stuck with me."

"As always."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Listen, if you have a problem…"

"Jack, don't panic, I'm not complaining."

"Just commenting?"

"Touche."

Silence again, this time broken only by a muttered curse and a crash as Jack O'Neill attempted to tie his shoelace while standing on one foot, and promptly fell over.

"You know that's a very unique way of doing that, Jack."

"Smart ass."

"Apparently."

"Oh, shut up."

"I will if you'll do this tie up for me."

"What? You don't know how?"

"Well, sort of." Muttered mumblings.

"Give it here. How the hell do you manage for all those diplomatic meetings?"

"Teal'c."

"Teal'c?! How the hell does he know?"

"Saw it in a movie apparently."

"That man never ceases to amaze me."

"Tell me about it."

"There, that's got it. Stand back, let's have a look…..okay, now the glasses."

"Jack, I can't see without my glasses, you know that."

"Wear your contacts."

"This is so stupid."

"All part and parcel of being part of the team, Danny Boy."

"Don't call me that."

"What?"

"Danny Boy. I'm not Irish and my name is Daniel."

"Would you prefer 'Plant Boy'?"

"No, Jonathon, I would not."

"Point taken."

"You ready yet.'

"Just about. Glasses?"

"Same place they were two minutes ago."

"You're a great help. Which car you wanna take?"

"I thought that was obvious, Jack. Yours, of course. Fits the 'image'."

"The image? I thought spooks drove black sedans."

"Get with it, Jack. This is the 21st Century, all the men in black have upgraded to black 4x4s, I thought you would have noticed."

"I'm usually too busy avoiding them."

"Well, now you are one, so get used to it."

"I am not a spook."

"Tonight you are, and so am I."

"Hmph. I'm gonna get Carter for this, I swear I am."

"I think she just likes to see you in the sunglasses."

"Daniel…"

"Okay, okay, you tell me then why we are dressed up as a couple of Men in Black to attend her Halloween party?"

Sudden silence complimented with a poorly disguised look of guilt.

"Jack?"

"Jack?"

"Jack, what did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Jack?"

"Daniel?"

"Jack, what did you do?"

"Nothing. I did nothing."

"I don't believe you."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"What was the bet?"

"There was no bet."

"Still not with the believing."

Jack muttered something.

"Definitely not believing. C'mon, Jack…"

The colonel stared at him a moment.

"Jack."

"Yes, Daniel?"

"Jack!"

"Okay, okay, keep your shorts on. I was on your side after all."

"My side? What side?"

"I thought she would look quite nice dressed as Trinity from the Matrix. But you let me down."

"Jack!"

"Hey, it was all in a good cause."

"What was in a good cause?!"

"You don't actually expect me to tell you, do you?" Jack straightened his hat. "C'mon, time to go."

Daniel glared. "There was a bet wasn't there?"

He sighed. "I didn't think you would actually do it."

"Do what?"

"C'mon, Daniel. Do you have any idea how corny 'Take me to your leader' actually sounds?"

-o-o-o-


	44. Haunted

Haunted  
A drabblish for the word 'haunt'  
By Gumnut in Sydney  
25 Oct 2004

They say he walks the corridors. They say you can hear him whisper, mutter, unintelligible words. Syllables strung on a strand of sorrow, skipping through the concrete halls.

He drifts about the exhibits, little more than an exhibit himself, trailing pain and anguish of a time now only a memory.

Few see him, but all hear him. And they know…the stories tell, the fables teach, history woven by those who lived it.

And the broken thread wanders lost and alone.

They say he will never leave, for what he lost was worth more than his life, and his death dealt a debt that could never be repaid.

Silver strands.

Twin pools of darkness.

And a soul that gave the lives of those he loved.

To give the future the chance to remember.

-o-o-o-


	45. Watching

Title: Watching  
Author: Gumnut  
Fandom: Stargate SG-1  
Rating: PG  
Summary: He watched.  
Word count: 553  
Spoilers & warnings: None  
Author's notes: For Jadey. She wanted more knife :D Thanks to Twitch for the beta...it was just like old times :hugs:

Watching  
By Gumnut  
10 - 11 Jun 2006

Daniel leant back against the dead old tree and sighed in relief.

Teal'c had watch, so he was able to relax somewhat. Sam was off doing a survey nearby and Daniel was taking the opportunity to rest his poor blighted feet. But his attention was quickly drawn away from his footwear.

By Jack.

The man was standing a few feet away, also leaning against a tree. playing with his knife.

First he sharpened it, running it across his oilstone repeatedly, the slick sound rather familiar now, even a little comforting. But then, like some hick from a western, Jack flipped the knife in one hand and proceeded to pare his fingernails with it.

Daniel frowned. The pose the man was holding was almost ludicrous. Cap tilted slightly off to one side, shoulder and back against the tree, one leg crossed over the other…all he needed was the stalk of grass to stick out the side of his mouth.

Of course, the P-90 hanging from his jacket did a great deal to dispel the image, but still… Daniel opened his mouth to poke fun at him, but Jack chose that moment to move, shifting so that his back was slightly towards Daniel, hiding his hands.

The archaeologist frowned again. What the hell was he doing now?

A moment later the knife appeared over Jack's shoulder, spinning on its longitudinal axis, the blade catching the afternoon light and reflecting it in all directions. How was he-?

Daniel had the urge to stand to get a better vantage point, but he knew if he moved, Jack would be disturbed and most likely stop what he was doing.

The knife suddenly flipped in mid-air and the man turned back in Daniel's direction, the blade landing in one hand…only to leave it a fraction of a second later and cartwheel in place. Jack's expression radiated casual concentration, his features mottled by reflected light.

A hand caught the handle, his fingers altering the direction of the weapon's momentum and working it through a series of obviously well practised moves. 'Western hick', became 'gunslinger', the weapon little more than an extension of his body.

"Enjoying the show, Daniel?"

The younger man jumped. Jack hadn't looked at him, hadn't hinted at his awareness of Daniel's scrutiny, but then the archaeologist was learning that the colonel was more than he seemed, and in the past few months since the inception of SG-1, he had been receiving a full education.

The knife flickered and blurred.

"You're, uh, pretty good with that."

Jack didn't respond, his eyes barely glancing in Daniel's direction. The blade didn't stop moving.

"Jack?"

The man moved so fast, Daniel didn't even have time to yelp. The knife left his hand and, with a thunk, embedded itself in the tree above him.

A small chip of bark landed in Daniel's hair and he was speechless for a moment, staring at Jack. "What the hell did you do that for?"

Jack walked over calmly and yanked the knife out of the tree. A six inch arachnid was impaled on the blade. Daniel stared, his eyes widening. A moment later he was scrambling to his feet.

Jack flicked the creature off the blade and into the underbrush. He looked at Daniel, a half smile on his face.

"I'm good for a reason."

-o-o-o-


	46. 200

Title: Two hundred  
Author: Gumnut  
Fandom: Stargate SG-1  
Characters: Jack and team  
Challenge: 200 (Jackfic)  
Rating: PG13, whump  
Spoilers & warnings: violence, torture  
Summary: To fall or not to fall.  
Word count: 200, double drabble  
Disclaimer: Mine? You gotta be kidding. Money? Don't have any, don't bother.  
Author's note: This proves how sick and twisted I am. I don't enjoy torture for the sake of it. I usually like plot to back it up complete with a pile of comfort to make it all better. But there were only 200 words and the scene stuck in my head as a perfect answer to the 200 hundred challenge. I am so going to have to write something nice to make up for this one. :gulp:

Two hundred  
A double drabble for the concept '200'  
By Gumnut  
20 Aug 2006

"Ninety-five!"

He shuddered, every inch of his body trembling. His teeth grit enough to chip enamel, but he didn't fall...he didn't fall.

"Ninety-six!"

It was their eyes that held him up. He prayed they had the strength to see this through, because if they looked away...he would fall.

"Ninety-seven!"

He focussed on the tear that trailed down Carter's cheek, the tightness of Daniel's lips, the utterly furious glare radiating from Teal'c's eyes. They wouldn't let him fall.

"Ninety-eight!"

Stupid custom, stupid tradition, stupid colonel's stupid fault. He should have let the man keep the damn thing, he shouldn't have insisted. He shouldn't have forced the issue.

Did he deserve this? Should it be a life for a life? He didn't know. But he shouldn't have let him fall.

"Ninety-nine!"

He bit through his lip and added to his fluid loss. Daniel had tears in his eyes now. Jack knew he had plenty in his own, but the archaeologist wasn't going to let them fall. Let them fall, let them fall...

"One hundred!"

The sharp leather fell across his back and the bloody mess it had made of it. He flinched for the hundredth time.

Only one hundred more to go.

-o-o-o-


	47. A random scene

A random scene  
By Gumnut

He stared down the barrel of his gun at the man holding onto Carter. "Don't even think about it."

Smit simply smiled. "Something wrong, Jacko? Be I playing with your itty bitty lady?" The arm he had around Carter ended in a wandering hand and her face screwed up in anger.

Jack didn't react, his voice as cold as the winds leeching the heat from their faces. "No. You're playing with your life and your ability to continue to live it."

"Ooh-wooh-hoo-hoo-hoo. Big bad Jacko is in the house." The gun in Smit's hand nudged at Carter's jugular. "Oh, I have so many other plans for my life, Jacko. Most of which do not include you. In fact, at least one of them involves your death. Would you be kind enough to oblige?"

Jack still didn't react. Didn't let the fury rise to the surface. Didn't let the anger fog his concentration.

Or the fear.

Smit was old dirt. Dirt from his past. Dirt he should have cleaned up when he had the chance. Dirt that was growing mould.

It had been a simple movie. An afternoon out with the guys - minus the guys. Both Daniel and Teal'c had begged out at the last minute, leaving him and Carter to brave the silverscreen by themselves. They had enjoyed the movie and were in the parking lot discussing possible dinner when Smit made his presence felt.

A bullet out of nowhere, blood on his jeans, palms grazing cold asphalt.

"Colonel!"

Carter had reached for him only to be dragged away forcibly. She'd fought, landing an elbow in Smit's face, his slowly dripping nose the result, but the man was from Jack's past and Jack's past was fully qualified. A wrench that nearly broke her arm, a kick to O'Neill's jaw and they found them in their current situation.

Jack O'Neill went to the movies with a gun in his pocket.

Jack O'Neill had learnt that one the hard way.

"What do you want, Smit?"

"Apart from your death? Oh, I don't know, how about a little revenge with a dash of homicide on the side. Though she does look tasty." He leant in and drew his tongue across her jawline.

She whacked him with the side of her head for his efforts.

Jack moved, but he wasn't quick enough, gaining a little ground but little else.

"Aww, for Christ's sake, girlie, don't you know when you're beaten? Huh?" He shook his head, but the gun didn't waver, jamming hard into her throat.

Carter just snarled at him, struggling in his grip despite herself.

"Ooh, she is feisty. Where can I get me one of these?" His hand wandered again.

"Do that again, and you die." Words of ice.

"Does it bother you, Jacko? Really? Has someone finally cracked that shitfaced sense of duty you always had?"

No answer.

"My dear, dear Jacko…"

"What. The. Hell. Do you want?"

"The stargate, Jack. That's all. You give me the stargate and all will be well. You don't? You'll be missing more than your little girlfriend here."

-o-o-o-


	48. And the doot closes

And the Door closes.  
By Gumnut  
15 Jun 2004

Silence.

The echoes of empty rooms.

Fading memories, forgotten times. A smile that has lost its face. A ballad lacking words, and notes without an instrument.

Photographs, artifacts of a time past, of a different man long gone, eroded away by life.

Jack O'Neill thumbed the treads of the wheelchair, turning it slowly so that his back was on it all. An errant finger trailed through his scruffy grey beard as his daughter determinedly caught the handles and propelled him through the door of his home for the last time.

The door closed with a click on a time that would never come again.

And Jack turned to Thor and said, "I'm ready."

-o-o-o-


	49. Bones

Bones  
A scribble for the word 'bones'  
By Gumnut  
17 Oct 2005

It was dark. Very dark. Tends to get that way in the absence of light. But then, he didn't need illumination to know what shared the room with him.

He could sketch them out with his eyes.

There was no sound.

Actually, that was a lie. There was sound. A soft continual sigh of sifting sand. His own breathing.

And his heartbeat.

Awfully loud, that heartbeat.

It was ironic really, that he end up like this. It was supposed to be Daniel who did the dumb thing. Supposed to be Daniel who needed saving.

Of course, Daniel would never have reacted quite the way he had. The trap hadn't been designed for Daniel.

Someone knew Jack O'Neill far too well. He hoped they burned in hell for that knowledge.

Bones.

He couldn't see them.

But he could sketch them out with his eyes.

It is amazing exactly how dark it can get when there is no light. It can also be amazing how much a person relies on the absence of darkness. He could certainly do without such an absence right now.

Part of him was waiting. Part of him was determined to fight, never give up, never surrender, the good old slogans that kept him going. But the chances? Hah! There had been odds before, but this time he'd really blown it.

They weren't going to find him. No one was going to find him.

Not until he resembled that pile of bones in the corner.

He couldn't see them.

But he could sketch them out with his eyes.

He wondered whose they actually were. A goa'uld? A native? A jaffa? He hadn't had much of a microsecond to identify them when he fell in here. A flash of decayed calcium, a buck tooth grin and then the light had initialised its absence.

Annoying that. Could have done with just a little less of it.

Would have been nice to be able to get off the ground, too. You know, case the joint. But the dragging and the grating had gotten tiresome, along with the pseudo-light of stars in front of his eyes. He liked light, just not the type that heralded unconsciousness.

Though come to think of it, unconsciousness would be nice around about now.

Too bad he was Jack O'Neill.

Bones.

He couldn't see them.

But he could sketch them out with his eyes.

He could also marionette them. Make them dance. Morph them into friendly faces and, at other times, into not so friendly faces. Who knew Baal had fallen down here with him? Who would have thought? Served the bastard right. May he rot in hell.

But then that would mean he was down here with him. Crap. Knew there was a catch line there somewhere.

Better get on with the rotting.

It was also annoying. It had been an interesting hieroglyph. And honestly, its resemblance to Homer Simpson had absolutely nothing to do with it. Nothing.

Daniel, don't touch anything. Why couldn't he follow his own advice?

Bones.

He couldn't see them.

But he could sketch them out with his eyes.

Damn it all to hell anyway.

Shifting sand. Harsh breathing.

His own heartbeat.

Awfully loud that heartbeat.

He wished they would come. His friends. His family. Carter with that mop of blonde hair that never quite behaved itself and a smile that babbled incomprehensible syllables that somehow ended up always making sense. Daniel, geek boy turn swashbuckler, who had so many votes for trying that they now so outweighed his mistakes they were pulling him out of the holes he fell into. And Teal'c, bastion of strength, the one to lean on in battle, dependable, dangerous, devoted.

He wished they would come.

It was dark. Very dark.

And he couldn't see them.

But he could.

He could sketch them out with his eyes.

-o-o-o-


	50. Catching and Caught

Caught  
A Stargate SG-1 drabble for the word 'tongue'  
By Gumnut  
25 Jul 2006

Caught.

That one word summed up his situation perfectly.

He kept still, but that didn't seem to deter the face full of cutlery currently slobbering all over his shoes.

Silence.

One of the children whimpered and he held his breath.

The knife collection sniffed at his pants, the ripple of muscles across its massive shoulders creating shadows on its already dark hide. Terrified, the three children cowered behind him, jammed up against the cliff face. Their trembling counterpoint to his racing heartbeat.

The child whimpered again and the creature looked up, yellow eyes challenging.

And its tongue drew across teeth.

-o-o-o-

Catching  
A drabble that doesn't quite contain the drabble word 'tongue' :D  
Sequel to 'Caught'  
By Gumnut  
28 Jul 2006

Time froze and Jack O'Neill stared into the eyes of death.

But he didn't really feel like dying.

His fingers crept across the face of the cliff as the children whimpered behind him. Fang Face snarled at him. Drool dripped on his boots. Again.

"Now that? That's really disgusting." And he threw a handful of stone, dirt and weed into the creature's eyes. A harsh whisper. "Run!"

The beast staggered backwards, shaking its head, snorting. Jack squared off against it as the three kids scurried off to his right. He caught the creature's eyes.

"Now? It's just you and me."

-o-o-o-


	51. Cause and Effect

Cause and Effect  
An aimless scribble  
By Gumnut  
11 Aug 2004

"It was your fault."

"Was not."

"Was too"

"Was not."

"Jack, denial in this case is entirely fruitless. I have it on video tape."

"Oh, really, well let's see it then."

"Not until you help me clean up this mess."

"What are you, my mother?"

"Some times I wonder."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"That I pity the poor woman who is."

"Now, that is just a low blow, Daniel. Would I say something like that to you?"

"In a heartbeat, sir."

"Oh, hi, Carter."

"Sir, how the hell did this happen? Look at him!"

"It wasn't my fault!"

"Was too."

"Was not."

"Was too."

"Was not!"

"Did you or did you not say your plan would work?"

"I-"

"Did you or did you not order me to hand it over?"

"But-"

"Did I or did I not warn you that this would happen?"

"Yes, b-"

"Jack, it is simple. You were the cause and this is the effect."

"Well, I had no choice!"

"Irrelevant. You made the decision, therefore it is your fault."

"You know, you can be a real pain in the-"

"Colonel!"

"Carter, it was just an accident, I swear."

"I'm sure it was, but regardless of whose fault it is, the mess still has to be cleaned up. Daniel can not go home looking like this."

"Why not? I think it suits him."

"Jack?"

"Yes, I think we'll keep him this way. Might improve his disposition."

"Jack."

"Definitely an improvement I think. Though we might have to change his uniform to match. How about a nice shade of purple?

"Jack!"

"Of course, then we'd have to change the colour of his bandanna too."

"Jack!!"

"Yes, Daniel?"

Pause.

"Er, Daniel? You were going to say something?"

"Okay. While I am sure you appreciate the fact that my present condition is directly a result of your decision – ah, let me finish – I do have to agree that what you did was in the name of a greater good, and saved not only me, but the team as well, for which I am very grateful."

"Why, thank you Daniel."

Pause.

"Well, aren't you going to help clean me up?"

"I was just thinking that I could grow used to this."

"Jack, there is no way on earth I am going to walk around with PINK HAIR! Now fix it!"

"You know with a little ribbon, a couple of flowers. Hey, I have an idea!"

"Jack! Jack? Jack, come back here. Please? Jack!"

-o-o-o-


	52. His professional life

Title: His professional life  
Author: Numnut  
Rating: PG  
Pairing: Jack/Sam  
Timeline: Spoilers up to season 7 (cos I can't remember which season the ep occurs in)  
Summary: It was his gun.  
Word count: 293  
Disclaimer: Mine? You gotta be kidding. Money? Don't have any don't bother.  
Author's notes: Just a scribble from a while back. Missing scene. Response to the challenge 'solitary'.

His Professional Life  
A drabblish for Solitary  
A missing scene for 'Entity'  
By Numnut  
10 Apr 2004

He tore into the room and slammed the door behind him. It hit so hard, his degree fell off the wall with a clatter of wood and shattering glass.

His office was empty but for him and the scatterings of his professional life.

Empty.

Damnit, damnit, damnit!

Why her? Why did it have to be her?

It was his call, his hand, his weapon. A simple decision, a calculation of threat. No emotional thought, no consideration.

His professional life.

Notes, papers, reports, both typed and scribbled in his own scrawling handwriting. What did it mean? Was there anything of himself not related to this blasted office.

The answer hung in the air.

He knew it.

It was her.

Her.

A smile.

The happy chatter of laughter, a dig in the ribs, an answer to every question.

Her.

But now she was gone.

Her life tangled up in wires and tubes and medical equipment that both gave and took the life from her.

It had been his hand holding the gun.

His finger pressing the trigger.

The final, fatal shot.

Damnit!

Papers, desk lamp, pens, pencils. Medals. The clatter on the floor was deafening.

He kicked the desk. Books on a shelf went flying. It wasn't enough.

No, no, no.

Why?

Why?

He stumbled and fell back in his chair, his hands cradling his head, resisting an attempt to rip it from his shoulders.

His hand.

She no longer looked at him.

She was dead.

His head fell to his desk. The solid against solid producing a small flare of pain. He didn't care.

A single, solitary tear. He felt it run down his cheek to fall to the military issue woodwork.

His professional life.

It had taken hers.

And his along with it.

-o-o-o-


	53. She was his

She was His  
By Numnut  
9 Mar 2004

Her lips were soft and pliant beneath his own and scented with the lipstick he didn't even know she wore. He drifted, lost in sensation, only briefly startled as her tongue touched his, caressing in tender exploration.

His hand curled around the back of her neck, his fingers roaming through her hair, her skin warm as she leant into his body, their extremities touching in a tempting encounter full of promise.

He held her to him. She was his. She was everything he could ever want. From her smile at his half-cooked jokes to her flabbergasted frustration at his silliness. She was his. Her scent filled his nostrils taking away every thought but those of her.

She was his.

A soft sigh escaped between her teeth, its little vibrations dancing across his lips. He answered it with an exhalation of his own, his body tightening in response, a heat building up in his bones.

She was his.

His hand drifted across her back, cotton underneath his fingertips, searching and finally attaining the electrostatic response of skin contacting skin. He tugged at her shirt gently, freeing it to hang loose from her body.

She leant further into his embrace.

Her hands caught his shirt and pulled.

He gasped breaking for air.

Her eyes found his.

She faltered.

Blinked.

Oh, god, no.

His breathing hitched as her eyes widened, realisation setting in. No, please, no.

His heart stopped as her hands fell away from him. She stepped back, confusion, remorse, misery on her face.

He could not speak.

She tried, her mouth shaping words with no sound, her face reddening. Her eyes shone.

With nothing said, she turned and ran. Her footsteps echoed the length of the hallway, their beat counterpoint to his pulse.

The door glared emptily at him.

She was his.

And now things would never be the same again.

-o-o-o-


	54. Simple

Simple  
By Gumnut  
8 Mar 2004

It was ironic really.

Considering the events of the past.

How many times had they done it? Eight? Nine? He could never remember. Teal'c knew. Perhaps he should ask him again and this time write it down.

'SG-1 has saved Planet Earth of times!!'

With added exclamation marks for emphasis.

But considering the lengths they had gone to during those previous incidents, this one was an outright cakewalk.

Simplicity itself.

If he didn't want to be seen, he wasn't.

It was his home turf after all. This was nothing compared to the array of alien planets he had had to play this game on.

Here he could blend in.

Okay, technically speaking this wasn't SG-1. Technically he wasn't even in uniform.

But he was still saving the world.

From itself.

He sighted down the barrel, took aim.

One finger, one action.

World saved.

Simple really.

He packed his bag, ignoring the alarm beneath on the street, stowed his weapon, and left.

Perhaps not just the world, perhaps the universe itself.

Thor would be proud.

Yep, it was ironic.

Now he was guilty of a crime he didn't commit.

Except he was a better marksman.

And this time Kinsey was dead.

-o-o-o-


	55. Soothe

Soothe  
A ficlet for 'soothe'  
By Numnut  
May 2004

Her finger melted into the soft cream as she touched it, and as she drifted it across his skin, it slid with her, leaving a trail of white on pink. He didn't move at her touch, but his skin reacted to her presence, the fine hairs on his back standing up as if in her honour, trapping heat in preparation for the cold balm under her fingertip.

His breathing was calm, regular, a sigh against the bed sheets, and his eyes closed, his haunting gaze shuttered and hidden for the moment.

She exhaled softly only becoming aware of holding her breath the moment she released it. He rarely relaxed, and to see the muscles of his back slowly settle as she gently rubbed was almost as much a relief as it had been to see him finally walk through that door today.

Broken was a word she wouldn't normally associate with Jack O'Neill, the man had a defence system that a tactical nuke had little chance of breaching. But today. Today had been a day she would rather forget.

Her hands drifted down towards his lower back, fingertips caressing old scars, long healed, and skipping gently over the new and the half healed. He didn't flinch, and for a moment she thought he might be asleep. Blessedly asleep. But a brief flutter of an eyelid, a dark eye turning towards her, betrayed him, and she had to hold back a disappointed frown.

He didn't say anything, however, and, as his eye shut once again, it struck her that he was showing a great deal of trust in her. The man hugged, he cajoled, he messed around. But he was always on guard, a tense awareness of exactly who was close to him, who was near, who may pose a possible threat.

She'd seen the members of SG-1 gather around him, hug him in relief. Seen them carry him half dead through the wormhole, seen him carry them half dead through the wormhole. But SG-1 was different, and exception to the rule of distance. Suddenly she came to realise that she too may have been included in his small exclusive group of friends around whom he could occasionally let the façade of the soldier, relax, and reveal a little of the man who is Jack O'Neill.

She reached his lower back where the worst of the injuries lay. Her touch did make him flinch this time, a soft mumble muffled into the pillow, but he didn't stir, and relaxed as the cream soothed the sudden sting, cooling.

The blowers of the air conditioner had been redirected to avoid a breeze on his naked skin and they now tousled her hair as she bent over him, the recycled air smelling somewhat fresh despite their depth underground. Dipping her finger into the tub of cream once again, she started on his rib cage, gently caressing the livid bruise and wishing the pain away.

She was almost finished when she realised his breathing had slipped into the regularity of sleep. For a moment she was surprised, almost worried he had fallen unconscious for another reason. But a soft snore started to batter the pillow his face lay on, and a gentle smile broke out on her face. He was asleep.

Relaxed. Home.

Safe.

She slipped between the curtains surrounding the bed quietly and dimmed the lights, and with a last glance towards the bed Janet left him to his slumber.

He had left that morning, cocky smile on his face, glib remark on his lips. This afternoon he had returned torn and broken. The mission had been a failure, the cost had be devastating, but there had been one vital success, one mission objective that could not be ignored had been accomplished.

He had come home to her.

He had survived.

-o-o-o-


	56. Spooked

Spooked  
A Drabble  
By Gumnut  
16 Nov 2003

It was eerie.

The familiar script, the golden monuments, the architecture.

It breathed the word Goa'uld.

His footsteps were silent, and he could hear the soft movements of his team as they followed him quietly, as wary of their surroundings as he.

His hand inched towards a weapon he didn't have, itching to feel its reassuring cool metal, the death that stood between him and the enemy.

But it was missing.

And the walls loomed.

Foreboding.

Evil.

"Boo!"

He spun, reflexes singing.

A pair of blue eyes blinked at him impishly.

"Damnit, Daniel, behave, we're in a museum, for crying out loud."

-o-o-o-


	57. Icewater

Icewater

Icewater

Never was a drabble to begin with  
For Judy  
By Gumnut  
14 Jan 2004

The snow crunched beneath his flying feet.

Shattered ice broken into millions of tiny glass shards, ignored, yet a sullen tempo to the blood throbbing in his ears, a discordant orchestra illustrating the state of his heart.

He had to be there.

This couldn't be happening.

The world was white. A glaring sun reflected off the winter landscape, its light betrayed only by its lack of heat. Dark shadows of pines, and the jagged spear of the mountain behind him the sole interruptions of the glistening blanket of snow.

There was no wind.

No breeze.

Everything was still.

The air drawn into his lungs was crisp and sharp, and a cloud of misting warmth followed his desperate plunge down the mountainside.

The only sound was his gasping breath.

His foot slipped on a patch of ice, and he was falling. Hands wrapped in fingerless gloves scrabbled to gain hold, skin catching on protruding rock enough to scrape and draw blood, yet not enough to grip and stop his downward plummet.

He yelped as his foot caught on an outcrop, his ankle taking his weight awkwardly, bending sideways, before the silence was broken by the sound of bone snapping.

Oh, god.

The outcrop flew past his face and he flung out an arm.

Fingernails dug in, grit scraping against their cuticles. Pain shot the length of his arm.

But he stopped.

His breath fogged his vision.

He heard himself whimper.

God, no.

Tears stung in his eyes.

Don't think.

He had to be there.

Gathering himself, he reached out his other arm, hand scrabbling through snow and dirt. The limp strands of dying grass brushed against his fingertips, its covering of snow brushed off by his headlong descent. His hand found a hold.

He began his descent again.

No less hurried.

No less desperate.

He had to be there.

In parts he could stand, one legged, panting. In parts he had to climb. But he didn't care if he had to crawl.

He had to be there.

Snowmen.

Snowmen and snow ball fights.

The feeling of damp snow down the back of your jacket, melting in your hair, the chilled skin of your cheeks, reddened by your body's desperate attempt to supply blood to cells exposed to the crisp, cold air.

It had only been a moment.

Smiles. Laughter. Even a giggle.

Innocence in a world polluted by guilt.

He had let his guard down.

And now there was a price to pay.

Eyes.

Eyes would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

Eyes that glowed. Menace, overshadowing that fatal bolt of orange energy.

Eyes of crystal blue, widening in surprise, sudden realisation, disappearing over an edge.

The horror, the pain, the scream of anguish, ricocheting off his own shock. Death dealt by the dozen. The deadly chatter of his weapon echoing off the rocks and swallowed by the snow.

His single minded stagger to the cliff edge.

His plunge down the mountainside.

The calls of his friends behind him, their muffled shouts as they attempted to follow him down.

This couldn't be happening.

He had to be there.

His feet buried themselves in snow, the drift reaching up his calves. His ankle took pressure and shouted back at him in pain before collapsing beneath him.

His mouth filled with ice.

But he had reached the bottom. Her lonely form a singular dark smudge on the snowfield.

It dragged him on.

Because this couldn't be happening.

And he had to be there.

She had laughed at him.

Daring to throw a ball of frozen water at her commanding officer's head.

And he hadn't ducked fast enough.

It had melted in his hair, icewater running down his back.

She had laughed.

Daniel had laughed.

Teal'c had simply smiled.

So he picked up one of his own, and, marksmanship being a forte of his, took out her latest hairstyle.

Then he had laughed.

The snowballs had fallen thick and fast.

The smiles, the laughter, the fun. His friends.

His responsibility.

His price.

He had to be there.

Even though he knew he was too late.

The chill in his bones was not solely due to temperature, and as he finally reached her, his heart froze solid.

Her eyes stared back at him, no longer seeing, no longer smiling. She was no longer there. Only the vacancy he was far too familiar with. A vacancy he had hoped never to see held by this face.

Oh god, no.

He reached out a hand, his fingertip brushing against her pale skin, its temperature cooling in the absence of life.

No response.

"Sam?" His voice was as frozen as his heart.

She would never answer him. Never give him a long winded explanation to a simple question. Never frown in annoyed amusement at one of his sarcastic comments.

She was no longer there.

And never would be.

Because he hadn't been there.

His guard had been brought down by her smile, and she had paid the price.

A single tear froze on his cheek.

Somewhere deep inside something died.

And the world just spun away...

Jack O'Neill flung himself up in bed. His body shook, his ankle sending throbbing messages up and down his leg. The cool breeze wafting in the open window chilled the sweat on his face, washing away the remnants of tortured sleep.

As his breathing calmed, he resisted the temptation to ring Carter for the fifth time this week. God, when would the nightmares end? Why had this time shaken him so much? It had all happened before, why play it over and over in his head like a record stuck in a groove?

Sam had survived, she hadn't fallen. She lived. She laughed. She smiled.

But it had been close.

A warning.

He had let his guard down for a moment. Enjoyed her company as a friend, had a little fun.

And tempted tragedy.

Face it, O'Neill.

The dream was a reminder, to ward him off those smiling blue eyes.

Because his love could be the death of the both of them.

-o-o-o-


End file.
